Wrong
by Holly Lukeman
Summary: Sam and Dean are on low-key hunt three weeks after the events of Lucifer Rising. What was supposed to be a normal haunting turns into something much worse, and the lives of both guys are at stake. How far are they willing to go to save one another?
1. Chapter 1

This is post fourth season finale, so any of the fourth season and possibly before that may be spoiled for you if you keep reading.

This is _not_ meant to be a serious attempt at speculation concerning where the fifth season is going to go. This is my way of getting "new" Supernatural when there is none to be had. And this way, I didn't have to wait for someone else to write it. :D

I'd appreciate knowing what you think, even if you think the whole thing isn't a good idea. This is way out of my zone.

**Last Note:** I have equal affection for both brothers, and I don't consider one better or worse than the other. And Sam hasn't told Dean about the phone message from Lucifer Rising.

* * *

Wrong.

There was no other word that encompassed everything Sam Winchester. Some words described him in part – monster, beast, and evil were a few. But no matter what pretty noun or adjective was given to identify the man, all of them fell under the all-inclusive umbrella of _wrong_.

He was an aberration and a curse on any and all who knew him. The years had passed and time had proven that to be Sam Winchester was to be flawed, unnatural, bizarre, deficient, repulsive, ugly, warped, deranged, transgressor, erroneous, heretic, perverse.

To be Sam Winchester was to be wrong in all the ways that mattered.

There was no other way for Sam to think of himself. What he had done had to be beyond even the forgiveness of an omnipotent, omnipresent God – there was no way to take back the sins that had rained from Sam like beads of sweat from the forehead of a dying man. He had stamped his soul with the mark of evil, and he had done so willingly. There was no going back.

He had been the keystone to the beginning of the end of the world, the hinge on which everything else hung, and he had played his role to perfection. Now the world would be broken under the death sentence written, signed and sealed by one Sam Winchester.

For that, death was not enough. For that, Hell was no more than a slap on the wrist. There was no conceivable, justified price for him to pay. Nowhere above, on or under the earth was there enough pain to sufficiently punish the youngest Winchester for his crimes.

Unless one got creative.

To punish this transgressor, certain steps had to be taken; to punish this monster, others had to suffer worse than he; to punish this perversion, his heart had to be torn out through his chest and lit on fire.

Sam Winchester had to be cut down for his sins against Heaven and Man.

x.x.x.x.x

_God, what have I done?_

Sam awoke with a gasp. Cold sweat stung his eyes and his was tongue bitter against his teeth. He tasted blood. He smelled sulfur.

Bringing a large hand to his mouth, he swiped a broad thumb against his bottom lip. It came away red; he had bitten his lip. The sulfur, he knew, was in his head – always in his head. It surged in his veins and swarmed in his brain, blinded his eyes and clogged his ears. It became him like a second skin.

Blinking slowly, Sam focused on the uneven jags of plaster ceiling above him, unwilling to move even to check the time. Every morning he woke up with the same thought – _God, what have I done?_ – and smelled the fire that would consume the world. All because of what he had done and what he had failed to do.

Finally, with a silent exhale of warm breath, Sam turned his head toward the luminescent clock, his cheek scraping against the rough brown pillowcase. The clock was an analogue with a glowing green face and hands that shimmered yellow. For a moment the numbers made no sense to him, having no place in the dark world that had overrun his thoughts. Eventually his mind assembled a reasonable time; it was 4:02 in the morning. He had slept in.

Swallowing a deep groan, Sam rolled to his side and off the bed, his feet hitting the chilled floor with a soft thud. For a moment he was confused, trying to remember what room he'd fallen asleep in. Taking a glance around, he determined that he was in Bobby's second guest room. Every night he would sleep somewhere different, just so he could have a moment of disorientation – to have something to think about other than what he had done.

Once he had curled up in the back of an old junker out in Bobby's yard, unable to go inside to face Dean and Bobby and reminders of how he'd failed again. When he had woken, he had been nearly frozen. He had shaken and coughed, felt like his lungs had swelled and crowded into his stomach and up his throat.

When he'd finally stumbled inside, Dean had nearly hit him he was so angry. Why hadn't Sam taken his phone? What was he thinking? Not even a jacket? Did he know he could have _died_ out there?

He hadn't done that again – it had hurt Dean too much. Instead he rotated through Bobby's house, choosing chairs, couches, floors and sometimes when he wasn't thinking, beds. Last night he had been, for all intents and purposes, drunk. He'd stumbled into the bed without a thought in his head except that he needed sleep. Perhaps it was a sign of improvement that he was beginning to think of his physical needs.

It had been three weeks since the breaking of the 66th seal, Lilith's death and the sealing of Sam's fate. Castiel had advised them to lie low and watch for signs – Sam guessed he was right, and that for them to run around like chickens with their heads lopped off wouldn't do anyone any good.

Running a calloused hand across his eyes, Sam just sat and dug his toes into the grooves of the old wood floorboards, trying not to remember, trying in vain to keep it all out of his head. It was an old tactic, his foolish attempts at denial, and like every other time, it failed him. With a sickening rush, it all came back.

He had felt it, that night – his eyes had changed with the rest of him into the blackest of blacks. What exactly that meant, he didn't yet know. Sam didn't know if he felt different from before – he couldn't feel much of anything at all.

Reminding himself to breathe, Sam padded to his duffel and pulled out clean clothes and a pair of sneakers. When he turned to leave the room, he was arrested by the sight of another body lying beneath the covers of the single bed next to his. It was breathing, so it likely wasn't another hallucination, of which he had had many that first week after... after.

Slowly, he crept closer, his heart picking up speed and thumping softly against his ribs. But he should have known who it would be. Dean's spiky hair peeked out from beneath the comforter, his body angled toward the bed in which Sam had been sleeping.

Emotion wrapped a rope around his throat and nearly strangled him. Sam hated it when Dean did that, when he felt like he had to stick close to the freak to keep him from getting into trouble. If something happened, if he changed in the middle of the night, then there would be someone around to deal with the problem. He hated that Dean had to deal with him, had to watch to make sure Sam didn't hurt anyone else; that he had to help clean up the catastrophe Sam had caused.

Turning sharply, Sam swallowed the jagged knife lodged in his esophagus and moved silently into the hall and then to the bathroom. The tiles were too cold and the lights were too bright, but they reminded Sam that there was still time to fix things, that it wasn't over yet.

It was never over.

Thoughts ran hard and crooked through his head as he showered, stinging his mind like the too hot rain of water on his skin. By the end, he was pink from heat and scrubbing, his flesh stung slightly as he patted himself down with a towel, and he had a pounding headache that he resolutely ignored. The whole cleaning ritual had taken him no more than fifteen minutes, and soon he was on his way downstairs to the library.

Much of his free time was spent researching, burying himself in facts and stories and lore until all he could see was the dance of words across his retinas. Now, though, he had slowed to a more reasonably human pace, mostly at Dean's silent urging. Most times Dean would give him a look that would ask him to slow down, to not overwork himself.

Slowly, Sam was accepting his condemnation and accepting that all that was left to be done was end it once and for all; but he'd tried to end it once before, and look how that turned out. The prospect was terrifying – every action he had taken to do just that had been wrong before, _every one of them_. And now there was no going back.

He was still waiting for the full consequences of his blood banquet to hit him, but until then he would try not to lose it completely, if only to keep Dean from having to deal with it.

"Late rise today?"

Sam whipped around and almost fell into a fighting stance before he recognized the voice coming from the kitchen. "Bobby."

"Sam."

Brushing his bangs out of his face, the youngest Winchester strode slowly to the table, looking down at the older hunter who reclined in a chair, one hand wrapped around a mug of coffee. "Want some?" Bobby inquired.

Sam thought about it and dismissed the idea. "Nah, thanks."

He hadn't had caffeine for months, and was no longer subject to the inevitable addiction that befell most Americans. He's just overcome one addiction, and that was more than enough for him at the moment.

"Hungry?" Bobby asked unnecessarily – both he and Dean always got the same answer from Sam.

"No. I'm fine."

Bobby grunted neutrally, having learned a long time ago that it was best not to push Sam too hard into something he didn't want. But still, he persisted gently. "Need anything else?"

"No, thanks. I was just gonna research for a while. I'll be in the library if Dean—" Sam snapped his jaw shut. _If Dean needs me…_ Dean didn't need him. God, what a laugh.

"I'll let him know."

Sam turned away without a goodbye and made his way to the library, his heart lying heavily atop his other organs, sagging to the bottom of his chest. The smell of the books as he entered the room was a welcome one, and he quickly pulled up a seat and grabbed an old tome he had marked the other day.

He didn't know why he researched anymore; nothing he did could help him repair the damage done by his own stupid hands. But there was nothing else for him to do, no other way to try atoning for his wrongs.

Every day he went into Bobby's library and searched for information, for ways out of their mess, for some advantage over the monster he had unleashed on humanity. Every day he came up with nothing substantial. But still he tried because to give up would be too easy an escape for him.

Today, he believed, would be the same as the other days.

x.x.x.x.x

Dean woke to the smell of coffee and the sluggish drag of knowing that when he opened his eyes, Sam wouldn't be there. He never was, anymore. The guy spent all day researching or running or doing anything and everything he could to keep from going nuts or talking. Then every night he would find a new place to sleep, forcing Dean to have to hunt him down in order to make sure Sam had actually come back.

Once, Sam had gone to sleep outside _in the cold_ and without a jacket. Dean had realized Sam was missing after he'd searched in vain for his most recent sleeping place. He'd called his cell phone and found the damn thing sitting on the kitchen table. After ripping through the house and finding nothing, Dean had been frantic. He went through the auto yard, shouting Sam's name, getting no reply. He'd just gone back into the house to call Bobby to come back from his trip and help, when Sam had practically fallen through the door, shaking with cold. Dean wasn't sure he'd been so relieved or angry in a while– relieved that he hadn't found Sam hurt or… He was just glad to have him back and okay.

Last night Sam had taken a bottle of some liquor or other and went outside for hours. Long after sunset, he returned drunk, tired and far too cold for Dean's taste. He'd tossed the bottle away and trudged into the recesses of the house after asking if there was anything either Bobby or Dean needed from him. With a negative response, Sam had disappeared.

Dean hadn't been able to stay away; while now he always felt a tug toward Sam, however unwelcome at times, the need to be around his brother had been particularly unforgiving last night. He'd tracked Sam to the room their dad used to stay in and found the kid lying on his back, still as death. Unable to see him like that, like at Cold Oak, Dean had thrown a blanket over him and laid down on the other bed. From there he could watch Sam and make sure that nothing came to hurt him, that nothing came to take him away. And to make sure he didn't take off.

With a moan for his stiff back – he hadn't moved all night, not wanting to turn away from Sam and miss the kid leaving in the middle of the night or something – Dean clambered out of bed and toward the bathroom.

Twenty minutes later he joined Bobby at the kitchen table, accepting with a tired nod of thanks the coffee that was shoved at him. The liquid steamed silently in its mug, breathing the energizing scent of the strong drink onto Dean's hands and face. He took a sip and winced as it burned his tongue. He took another.

"You look like death warmed over," Bobby commented as he moved around the kitchen.

Dean grunted. "Thanks, good morning to you, too." Frowning, Dean glanced out the window to see there was only a tinge of orange on the horizon. "Not even sunup," he grumbled, going back to his coffee.

"'Could go back to sleep."

They both knew Dean wouldn't do that, not while Sam was up and around. If Dean was honest with himself, he was afraid that if didn't watch close enough that Sam would up and float away, never to be seen again. Damn dreams.

"You seen Sam?" Dean asked eventually, running one thumb over the glazed handle of his cup.

"Not since he came down 'bout half an hour ago."

"He eat anything?"

Bobby shook his head and took a seat across the table from Dean. "Nope. Didn't even want caffeine."

Dean cursed wearily under his breath and took a large swallow of his drink. His eyes traced the scratches in Bobby's table, noting a few that he remembered making himself. Hope balled small and delicate in his gut when he thought about Sam – he'd started talking a bit more, and he didn't always look so lost, now. That first week, Dean had nearly lost his mind every time he looked at Sam and saw no light in his eyes – nothing but the blank sheen of someone who had given in. Painfully slowly, he was starting to see Sam come back. Though who he was anymore, Dean wasn't always sure he knew.

The scrape of paper against wood interrupted Dean's drifting thoughts. He looked at the manila folder lying near his hands and then up at Bobby, who was watching him with a tired, determined expression on his face. "What?"

"Found you boys a hunt. Nice and easy, so's neither of you loses any important body parts while you're gettin' yourselves together."

"Bobby…"

"Dean, Sam needs this."

If anything could make Dean listen, that was it. _Damn it, Bobby_.

"I know," he said slowly, quietly, "I just can't…"

Bobby supplied, "Can't stand the thought 'a losing him. I know. But there's only so long you can keep him locked up."

Tensed muscles bounced rapidly along Dean's jaw, outing his fears to his older friend. But he shoved his nightmares away with ruthless force; he could forget them for a while if it was for Sam.

"What's the hunt?" he asked finally.

Ten minutes and a hunt background later, with the last of his coffee gone, Dean rinsed his cup and then marched resolutely toward the library. A hunt would help, he told himself firmly; it would give them something to think about other than how they were doing absolutely nothing to stop whatever hell Lucifer had planned for the planet.

He just hoped Sam would really be up for it.

The library door was open when he reached it. After the first day back when Sam had shut every door behind him, as if trying to hide himself from the world at large, Dean had made sure to open them whenever he went in or out. He wanted Sam where he could see him. Seeming to realize that, Sam had gone with it, much to Dean's relief. Things were strained enough without him having to burst in on Sam when he got worried.

"You decent?" Dean joked lightly as he stepped into the room.

Sam looked up from where he was poring over something or other on his computer. Dean was immediately struck by how…_not_ tired Sam looked. He seemed almost energized for the first time in a very long time. That, and his hair was getting too long. He needed it cut.

"Good read?" Dean asked uncertainly, slightly thrown by the look of near excitement in Sam's eyes.

"What? Oh, yeah, not really. Do you need something?"

"No," Dean responded automatically. Then, with a shake of his head, "Wait, yeah. Bobby's got us a hunt."

"Yeah? Where?"

"Uh, 'bout an hour east of here. Some little town with famous houses or whatever."

Something sparked behind Sam's eyes. "Stockton or Fellburge?"

Dean gave him a look that said how much of a nerd he was to know about houses of all things, but he answered, "Stockton."

"Huh. What's the job?"

"Possible haunting, maybe a vengeful spirit – basic stuff."

"Okay. Gimme a second and I'll grab my bag." Sam shut the computer and began to gather up its cord.

"What, just like that?"

"Yes? Why, what am I supposed to say?" He wound the cord into a loop and set it on top of the PC.

With a neutral shrug, Dean replied, "Dunno, you've just been kind of…" He finished with a vague gesticulation of his hand.

The shaggy brown head dropped slightly and a shade quickly pulled over Sam's eyes. "Yeah, I know. But if I'm gonna have a chance at fixing what I did…"

"Sam," Dean started.

"I've gotta _do_ something."

A small tongue of anger licked at Dean, leaving a wet trail of frustration in its wake. He didn't miss the camouflaged reasoning behind Sam's easy acquiescence to the job. "You mean you've got to be out where any one of those bastards can find you." _Or you can find them._

Sam looked away, his jaw working slowly, as though carefully chewing and feeling out the words he was about to say. Finally, in a voice almost too soft to hear, "Would that be such a bad thing?"

Dean snapped. "Yes! Damn it Sam, yes."

Again in that quiet voice, "I'm not looking to get myself killed Dean…"

"Coulda fooled me."

"…I'm just – it's just taking me time to – to deal with this. I just need some time."

And Dean got that, he really did, but what he didn't want to happen was his brother deciding halfway through his 'dealing time' that the world had seen enough of Sam Winchester - from what Dean had gathered, Sam had been on a serious kamikaze mission those four months Dean had been gone. A repeat was something he was hoping to avoid.

"That's fine – great, I understand. But you've gotta come to me if stuff… you have to let me know if it gets to be too much," Dean said, locking eyes with Sam to make sure he got the message. _You know I'm not just letting you go, don't you?_

Sam tried to smile, but it came out crooked. "Sure."

Sam was up and heading for the door before Dean could get another word out, and then he was gone.

x.x.x.x.x

They were on the road in no time at all, Dean behind the wheel and Sam tucked into the passenger's seat. Dean couldn't help but feel the yank in his gut at the feeling of the road beneath his baby's wheels and the familiar – and lately not seen– sight of his brother next to him while the three of them sped off toward a new job.

Painful didn't begin to cover it.

"So, you want to know more about the hunt?" Cursing the fact that uncertainty was one of the only ways he could approach his brother, Dean waited for an answer.

"I skimmed the file before we left." Sam didn't turn away from the window. "Angry spirit of a dead man is haunting the house he died in. Shot by his son-in-law at a party and bled out on the porch – now there's a bloodstain on the porch that keeps coming back and people who live in the house die from blood clots in the brain, which is apparently how the son-in-law died in jail. Classic vengeful spirit."

"Did you read the part about some residents dying from blood loss? None of them had a mark on them. They were just found drained on the porch," Dean added.

"Probably just another method of revenge."

"I don't know. Seems strange for a ghost like that to switch up the deaths."

"Well, 'guess we'll see when we get there."

Dean drummed his fingers against the hard surface of the wheel, fingers seeking out familiar grooves in the material. Subtly, he shifted his gaze to Sam. His brother was staring absently out the window, his thoughts far away.

Turning back to the road, he noted that the sun was halfway risen, casting long shadows from trees onto the dew-dampened ground. The dark silhouettes filed past the window, dragged by like lonely spirits forced from their graves.

"Want to stop and get breakfast?" He asked it just to have something to say.

"If you want."

"You hungry?"

"No."

"Thirsty?"

"I'm fine, Dean."

"Okay."

The minutes dripped slowly past, making Dean wish he'd turned on some music before they took off; he would put it on now, but he didn't want to move for fear that… he didn't ever know what. It was the tension between him and Sam that felt too huge to overcome – it stayed his hand and forced him to sit in silence.

"How're we going to handle it?" Again with saying things just to have something but that damn wall between them.

Quizzical hazel-blue eyes met Dean's. "You mean the job?"

Dean shrugged.

"Salt and burn is the general method." Sam seemed slightly amused, much to Dean's annoyance.

"Yeah, but… I just think we should stick together on this one." Dean glanced at Sam and saw his little brother's eyes darken into deep brown.

"Together. You mean we shouldn't ever split up."

"Not this time. We should just be careful until we're both back up to speed."

"You mean me."

_Maybe. _"No, I mean—"

"Because of my addiction, right? Never know when I might freak out and slice someone open. Maybe I should walk in front of you, just in case – that way you can make sure I don't go crazy and start offing people just for the heck of it."

Dean sat in stunned silence, numbness traveling from his fingers up his arms.

"You're going to miss our exit." Sam pointed to a sign next to an oncoming ramp.

Without much thought, Dean turned the wheel and pulled off onto the ramp, still reeling from what Sam had said.

"Not much longer 'til we're there," Sam murmured.

"What the hell kind of crap was that?" Dean finally exploded, letting his surprise settle to the back of his mind like sand to the bottom of a pool.

Sam hitched a shoulder, his face calm as a damn Zen master's. "That's what monsters do."

"Sam, you—"

"Don't. Just – just don't. I can't listen to this right now."

"Listen to _what_ exactly?"

"Garbage about how I'm…"

"Wait, you're sick of _me_ lying to _you_?" Dean correctly ascertained, "When all last year the only thing you did was feed me line after line of bull crap?"

"Yeah, that's about it." Sam frowned coldly and shifted to sit straighter in his seat.

"No, nuh uh, you don't get to just throw something like that at me and then shut down. You want to have this out – fine, we'll have it out."

Icy eyes turned on Dean, fortified behind so many walls that Dean almost couldn't see his brother. Once upon a time he'd been the only one able to scale those walls.

"Seems to me we've already talked this thing to death; I told you what I was trying to do, and I got your position loud and clear. You were right, and I screwed us all to hell." And just like that, Sam turned away again.

Dean was left grinding his teeth together, feeling helpless and borderline outraged. Their fight in that hotel room didn't constitute 'talking it out' to him. That was… he didn't even want to think about what that was. While normally he would rather choke to death than share feelings, this was _Sam_.

And damn it, he didn't want to be _right_ – he just wanted his brother to be okay. He wished to God he'd been wrong; _still_ hoped he was wrong where Sam was concerned.

He opened his mouth to say something, came up with nothing. He wanted to yell at Sam and he wanted to comfort him at the same time. He was no psychologist, but he didn't think both at the once would do much good. But he couldn't leave Sam like that – thinking that the whole thing was his fault; Dean wasn't exactly without blame. Seals didn't break themselves.

"It wasn't just you."

"We've got five minutes before we're there." Sam angled his shoulders away from Dean.

Resisting the urge to clear his throat and shift in his seat, Dean tried again. "This…thing, the Apocalypse or whatever – it's not just your fault."

A bitter, broken smile slid over Sam's mouth, twisting his features into something Dean didn't like. "No, it's not is it? I sure as hell had help on some of it. But hey, can't let her take all the credit – Dumbo didn't even need his freaking feather."

Once again Dean was left feeling like he'd dropped into the middle of someone else's conversation, or perhaps down a rabbit hole into a messed up world. Instead of trying to figure out what exactly Sam was going on about, Dean shook his head.

"That's not what I meant. There's something I didn't tell you."

Sam's closed gaze turned flickered toward him, his hand going to the dashboard to wipe away imaginary dust. "Is it something I need to know? Something I did or something I need to fix?"

"Not – not really." Dean cursed the slight stutter in his voice. He tightened his jaw and pressed his foot to the gas pedal as he came out of a curve in the road. The car shot forward, taking them closer to their new job.

"Then don't tell me."

Dean could hear the words Sam wasn't saying – _You can't trust me_. And more than anything he wished that wasn't true.


	2. Chapter 2

_"Is it better to out-monster the monster or to be quietly devoured?"_

_-- Friedrich Nietzsche_

_

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_

Dean barely remembered being a child. He remembered his childhood, sure, but he had a hard time thinking back to a time when things were simple and everything was what it seemed. Childish attitudes about things were hard to come by when one was expected to be a parent at the age of four. While that was something he would never regret, it also wasn't something he thought much about.

However, as he stood in front of the impressive and massive Victorian-style house that was supposedly haunted by an angry homicidal spirit, Dean couldn't help but think childishly that a place that elegant shouldn't be infested with malicious ghosts. It looked more like an expensive B&B, the kind he and Sam never stayed at. But then again, sometimes the most beautiful things were also the most terrible.

"Pretty, isn't it?"

He nodded his head minutely, agreeing with the tired-looking woman standing next to him. Mrs. Cozbi was the widow of Jacob Cozbi, the man who had been murdered on the fancy house's wraparound porch.

"Mrs. Cozbi, what can you tell us about what your husband and son-in-law were arguing about on the night of his death?" Sam asked the question while standing at Dean's elbow; calm, like their fight in the car had never happened.

Denial was one of the most honed skills in the Winchester arsenal against emotional damage. Too bad the kickback was a bitch.

Sam's question shook Dean out of the daze he had been in since their car ride to Stockton, the half-formed conversation still buzzing around in his head. He turned to the petite, middle-aged women, who seemed to grow even wearier at the query.

"James and Jacob had any number of problems. Jacob never did approve of our daughter's choice in a husband. I just wish…" She broke off, swallowing and gripping her elbows with skinny fingers. "After her father died and her husband passed, our girl killed herself… Sometimes I hate them both for what they did to her."

"We're sorry for your loss, Mrs. Cozbi." Sam's face was a mask of perfect sympathy; it was something Dean had never been able to fake as easily or mean as sincerely as Sam did.

"Thank you." She sniffed hard and pressed bony fingertips to gaunt eye sockets before facing Sam with a fading smile. "I suppose you two need the details of what happened. All the other cops wanted to know."

"Yes, if you don't mind. It would help our investigation," Dean said solemnly.

"Of course." Her voice wavered, but she nodded firmly and began to stride toward the house, not looking back to see if Sam and Dean followed her. "My family has lived in this house for three generations. After what happened to my husband… well, I didn't want it anymore. But now I'm afraid to sell it again after what's been happening to the folks who move in. At first I thought it was all a coincidence, but after what happened to that young couple who came here only a few days ago..."

"And what exactly is that?" Sam prodded gently.

"They... it was very strange. I don't know the medical details, only that they didn't make it."

Dean made a mental note to stop by the coroner's office and get the details from him. Sam, he knew, would already be planning the questions to ask the guy, running through details in his head, forming theories as to what might be going on and why. _Such a geek_.

His heart wrenched.

"Jacob was killed at a party?" Sam asked, oblivious to Dean's painful case of nostalgia.

"Yes. It was our 35th anniversary. We were throwing a party. Everyone we knew was attending; they were all there when it happened, like something out of a nightmare."

Dean shot Sam a glance and both winced; what a fantastic way to spend a wedding anniversary.

"They'd had a huge fight that afternoon. James didn't stay for the party; he just left. My daughter tried to go after him and talk him down, but that boy had a temper like you wouldn't believe. No one could find him, so we just went on as planned."

By that time they had reached the steps that led up to the porch. They were painted off-white and looked immaculate, exuding money and high societal standing. For steps, they said a lot about the place. Instead of making her way up the stairs, Mrs. Cozbi simply stood still, her large gray eyes trained up toward the house's front door.

"It was around 10 or so that night when James showed up in that fancy car of his. Jacob went out to talk to him, to try and make things right again." Moisture gathered at the corners of the woman's eyes and she quickly swiped it away. "I should have gone with him. Maybe I could have done something, anything… James pulled out a gun and shot Jacob twice in the chest. He was standing there." She pointed toward the edge of the porch, her hand trembling slightly.

The hand dropped after a moment, tangling itself in Mrs. Cozbi's brown skirt. "Jacob was dead before the paramedics arrived." Her fist tightened around the material, twisting. "There was so much blood."

"Do you mind if we take a look?" Dean made sure to keep his voice as professional as the black suit he wore. No more Blues Brothers imitations, thank god.

Mrs. Cozbi nodded and swept a hand toward the porch. "Go ahead. Just don't touch the bloodstain."

"Bloodstain?" Raising his eyebrows in surprise, Sam glanced once again at Dean. "No one cleaned it? Or painted over it?"

"Of course we did. Didn't do a bit of good, though; I even tried to have the boards replaced, but…"

"What happened?" Dean asked.

"The – the blood came back. It just came up through the boards when the construction worker tried to take them out. No one will touch it now, of course."

Trying to imagine how _that_ must have looked, Dean followed Sam up to the porch and stopped at the edge of a large, brown stain on the floor. That was a lot of blood, alright.

"And your son-in-law passed away soon after he was arrested?" Dean asked.

"He did. He died in jail – blood clot, the doctor said." Her gaze skittered away, brown eyes angled sadly.

"You don't believe that?" Sam stepped closer to her, exuding trustworthiness.

"I don't know what to think about any of this." She gave them a watery smile. "I keep waiting to wake up and have things back to the way they should be."

Dean swallowed and turned away, trying to think about the blood or the guy's death or something _else_. Not how much he agreed with Mrs. Cozbi's mournful wish. Everything the way it was… right.

"What happens if you touch it?" he asked, veering away from painful thoughts as fast as he could.

A shiver rippled through Mrs. Cozbi's frame, making her slight body shudder like an autumn leaf about to fall from its branch. "Like I said, it comes back. Just… floods."

_Of course it does_, Dean couldn't help but think with tacit acceptance of their odd lives.

"Mrs. Cozbi, where is your husband buried?" Sam made sure to sound as competent and empathetic as possible; some people took questions about their loved one's burial the wrong way. Or, since they actually were going to dig up the body and burn it, maybe not quite so wrong.

"My Jacob was cremated."

Naturally.

"What about your son-in-law?"

"Him, too. They had their differences, but neither of them wanted to be a burden when they were gone. Didn't even want a service, which of course I ignored." Tears appeared once again in the corners of her eyes, only to be cleared away by a brush with her wrist. "Stubborn bastard."

Dean was inclined to agree. It meant hours more work for them, researching and searching for whatever item to which the spirit was attached.

Sam's next look at him said more than they could communicate verbally, at least with Mrs. Cozbi around: _The spirit could be the son-in-law, but he wasn't the one with the violent death, so it's unlikely._

Dean inclined his head slightly, showing that he agreed with Sam's assumption. They would have to be careful of the alternative, but his money was on the older man being the angry ghost. Shot at your own party by your daughter's husband wasn't a happy way to go.

"Did you have your husband's possessions removed from the house after his death?" Dean inquired, fervently hoping for a negative response. The last thing he wanted to do was go garage sale hunting for a dead man's stuffed cat or whatever.

"No, everything is exactly as it was. I couldn't – I didn't want anything if I couldn't have him. None of it matters when you lose someone like that, you know?"

Both of them did understand, far more than either wanted.

Mrs. Cozbi paused and lifted her hand, frowning as she stared down at the old watch encircling a thin wrist. "I apologize, but I have a previous appointment. Can I show you the rest of house some other time?"

Despite the problems between them, Dean wasn't yet deaf to the silent language he and Sam spoke. Sam's look now told him that his little brother favored the idea of coming back without Mrs. Cozbi – confronting angry ghosts was usually done best without innocents in the way.

"Yeah, no problem. We'll give you a call later." Dean nodded pleasantly.

"Thank you, and I'm sorry I have to cut this short. You boys have somewhere to stay?"

"We're fine, thanks."

x.x.x.x.x

"Dude, this is so not fine."

"It could be worse."

"Oh yeah? How?"

"Could be pink."

"It _is_ pink."

"Actually, I think it's more red."

"It's got _fruit_ all over it."

"Better than flowers."

"Shut up and let me hate the freaking room."

"We're staying here for a while, so I just figured we should get used to it."

"No. I hate it and it's staying that way."

"Fine, whatever. I'm gonna go take a shower."

"Watch out for the foofy scented soaps. You come out of there smelling like freesias and you're sleeping outside."

"Dude, you're admitting to knowing what freesias are?"

"Yeah, sure; I hear they work like Nair in shampoo, Sammy."

Sam didn't respond to his brother's thinly veiled threat, but he also couldn't help his own frown forming at the sight of their room. It was all cherry-colored and decorated with said fruit, strawberries and pears, of all things. He wasn't very up on fashion, but Sam was pretty sure that mixing fruits like that was a decorating faux pas. Even the bedspreads were reddish-pink and splattered with fruity patterns.

"This is just sick."

Quirking an eyebrow at his brother, Sam moved farther into the room and dropped his duffel at the bottom of the bed farthest from the door. "We've stayed in places that would make a hooker blush and this is what freaks you out?"

Expression flat, Dean reached out and snagged a figurine off of the nightstand. He held it up to Sam. "Does this look anything less than wrong to you?" The figurine was a large grapefruit with bugging eyes and a smile made from a gaping slice in the front of the citric fruit. The pink fleshy inside appeared to be teeth and a tongue.

Sam considered that maybe Dean had a point.

"Yeah, that's what I thought." Dean set the figurine back down, having correctly interpreted Sam's silence to mean something along the lines of "Freakish doesn't begin to cover what that thing is."

For a moment Dean stared at the glassy, eyelash-rimmed eyes of the grinning grapefruit; girl grapefruit, apparently. He reached out and spun the thing to face the wall. Still unsatisfied, he opened the nightstand drawer and knocked the thing inside. It rolled to a stop next to the Holy Bible – Dean figured that if anything could contain the offensive fruit, it would be a holy book.

"Alright." Dean clapped his hands once and rubbed them together, trying not to look any of the dancing fruit pictures in the eye, especially the one with a top hat and cane that looked like a large hook. "Let's get something to eat. There's gotta be a decent diner somewhere in this town, right?"

"Shower," Sam said pointedly.

"Food," Dean insisted.

"Cleanliness is next to godliness."

"Not if you die of starvation."

Sam sat on the end of the bed, looking down at his worn brown sneakers. Then, after a moment, he lifted his gaze to Dean's. "Burgers?"

Trying not to let Sam see how pleased he was with his little brother's vague interest in food, Dean grinned. "What else?"

"Okay. You have a list of places in town?"

"What's wrong with just driving around?"

"We could end up somewhere that serves mostly health food."

Recalling a similar occurrence that had taken place a little over a year ago, Dean's face blanched in reminiscent horror. "I think they have something in the lobby. Be back in two."

Dean paused as he turned toward the door. They hadn't put up wards in the room yet, and he didn't want to leave Sam sitting in the open and looking all attackable with his baggy brown hoodie and floppy hair.

They carried various things with them that would throw demons or angels off their track, but extra protection wasn't something Dean would say no to.

He thought briefly about asking Sam to do the wards, but dismissed the thought quickly; he still wasn't quite over the whole Lilith ordeal after they met Chuck, still wasn't sure Sam was over inviting trouble. He couldn't handle the thought of coming back one time and finding… Dean swallowed hard and dug into his bag to find the wards.

Without giving an explanation – and thus hopefully bypassing another argument with Sam – Dean quickly set up salt lines and etched protective symbols around the motel room. He said nothing as Sam got up and joined him. It felt oddly like home when Sam worked side by side with him to put up their defenses, and it was something Dean had missed like hell over the past year. Longer than that, maybe; but he had been blind to a lot before he died.

When he was satisfied it would keep most predators out, he gave Sam a silent nod and ducked out onto the street.

The moment the door latch was closed and Dean was out of sight, Sam dove for his duffel and yanked out his laptop. In a second he had it out of sleep mode and running, hurriedly connecting to the weak internet signal provided by the Stepper Motel. He was just thankful it wasn't dial-up like some of the places they stayed.

Generally Dean tried to find them somewhere with faster internet. While once he had believed it was because Sam preferred it, he now had to wonder if this time it was because it would speed research and thus the hunt along. Less time without backup in case the monster lost its mind.

Heart clattering erratically, Sam kept his eyes on the door as he hurriedly typed in his search parameters. Jaw clenching with anticipation, Sam prayed he had been right and that he would be able to find what he was looking for; he should be able to, now that they were in Stockton. After a few moments, he scanned the hits, searching for a particular name. There it was – it was a local address, just like he'd suspected.

"Gotcha." He grinned.

Rooting around through the nightstand, he found a scrap of peach-colored paper lauding the benefits of some hair treatment or other – bald patches were not his problem, despite Dean's Nair threat – and flipped it to the blank back. Sam recorded all the necessary information in a furious chicken scratch that was almost illegible as it slanted over the paper in messy blue ink, the pen leaking blobs of navy as it was dragged over the page.

The door's lock flipped over with a loud clack, breaking the near silence of the room. Sam punched two keys on the computer and had it sinking back into sleep as Dean walked into the room, brow furrowed as he focused on a pamphlet in his hand. Sam took that opportunity to quickly press the laptop closed and slide it off his lap.

"They've got a diner with famous grilled chicken and some joint that's supposed to have really good hamburgers and wedge fries." Dean looked up questioningly at Sam. "What's your pleasure?"

"Oh, uh…" Sam shifted on the bed and subtly nudged a pillow over the computer before turning to Dean. "Didn't you want burgers?"

"Yeah, but…" He gave a shrug. "I just thought, since you like chicken better – but whatever."

Sam couldn't help the amusement that rose right along with the painful nostalgia; Sam wasn't sure he could even taste anything anymore – if he could, maybe he didn't care – and Dean shouldn't give a crap about what Sam wanted to eat, but he did. And damn if that wasn't classic Dean; at least, that's what Sam wanted to believe it was.

"Thanks," Sam said, swallowing the roll of emotion in his throat, "but burgers are fine."

"You're sure?"

For a moment Sam missed his brother simply choosing what they were going to eat, never failing to give Sam that grin that said, "As the oldest, I pick the grub, so shut up, sit down and eat." Not that he liked being ordered around, but he missed what used to be their "normal."

"I'm sure."

"Alright. Shower and we'll get going."

x.x.x.x.x

At the diner, Dean was barely placated when Sam ordered a salad; he had been hoping his brother would order something with a little more sustenance – who knew when the guy would eat again.

But at least he ordered food, and that was something. Even thought he sat there chewing with as much enthusiasm as a cow chewing its cud; Dean briefly considered telling Sam that that was exactly what he looked like, but decided that the humor would be lost on his little brother.

"Enjoying your salad?" Dean asked sardonically after swallowing a chunk of delectable burger.

Sam chuckled. "Tastes like sawdust, actually."

"Ah. So, that would be a yes?" He didn't resist jabbing at Sam's wacky no-taste food preferences. Plants over pie and cheeseburgers? Blasphemy.

"Ha, ha." Sam looked down at the leafy greens, shifting them across the bowl with his fork. "That's kind of what everything tastes like."

Dean almost missed the last part, so quietly was it said. He cleared his throat. "You, ah, want something else?"

"No."

"How about a burger?"

"No, thanks."

Dean hesitated, staring at the juicy beef and melted cheese between the grilled buns that sat deliciously warm in his hands. "You want some of mine?"

Sam nearly choked on the bite of cucumber he had just put into his mouth. "What?" he said when he had swallowed safely, "Did you just… did you just offer me some of your food?"

"Yeah, so?"

Shaking his head, Sam leaned back and looked at Dean with wide eyes. "Man, that's like you asking if I want to take the Impala out for a spin."

"I let you drive." Dean was a bit defensive.

"By myself."

Oh. Yeah, maybe not so much. The thought of his baby out alone without him made Dean wince. "Fine, you don't want any of my burger. You should get some dessert."

"I'll pass."

Giving up for the moment on making Sam eat more – he would just have to be satisfied with Sam eating his chick food – Dean veered the conversation toward the job. "What do you want to do first? Visit the morgue or go back to the house?"

"Should probably go by the house after dark. I'm willing to bet no one watches the place at night." Sam's point was a good one; who wanted to hang around a haunted bloodstain in the dark?

"Right, so morgue it is."

Sam chewed for a few moments, taking longer than necessary to grind up his food. Dean noticed that he had been doing that a lot the past year or so, as if… as if everything tasted like sawdust.

"We should probably do some digging on the house's history, too. The clots and the bleed outs might be from two different ghosts or something. Who knows how the son-in-law was feeling when he died." It was a long shot, but a possibility for which they had to watch out.

"Sounds good," Dean replied around a mouthful of beef.

Sam flicked lettuce and carrot shavings around his dish, not looking at Dean. "It'd go faster if we each took one."

Stopping halfway to another bite of his burger, Dean dropped the sandwich and stared hard at Sam. "No."

"We'd be ten miles away from each other, maximum. We both have phones." Sam gave a half smile. "You could take the Impala."

Dean shook his head, not taking his eyes off his brother. "Not happening, Sam. We stick together on this one."

Sam sighed softly, unsurprised by Dean's rejection. "You know you can't keep me with you forever." It was said softly and without any hint of subtext, rebellion or threat, but Dean felt like he'd been punched all the same.

He knew it; knew it all too well, actually.

Narrowing his eyes, Dean pushed away from the table and stood up. Without a word, he headed for the bathroom, his boots clunking heavily against the linoleum-covered floor. Sam didn't follow him, and Dean wasn't sure if he was glad about that or not.

The restrooms were kept up pretty well, something common in the mom 'n pop places from which Dean and Sam tended to get their three squares a day. The stalls were hunter green and the walls were mostly white with minimal dirty writing.

He paced in front of the toilets, wiping a frustrated hand over his jaw. He knew Bobby had sent them on a hunt not only to get them back in the game, but perhaps more so that they would have a chance to talk; or have to talk, since hunting required communication. Dean just wasn't so sure he could do it; every time he heard about what Sam had done or lied about, he felt ready to explode or fade into nothing.

He was afraid of what he would do if he or Sam said too much. He didn't trust Sam like he had before, but neither did he trust himself.

Striding to one of the sinks, Dean leaned forward on his hands and balanced on the bright porcelain edge. He didn't look in the mirror; he knew what he'd find, and he didn't want to deal with it, couldn't see in his eyes what he was feeling.

He wouldn't look at the gaping hole that had barely scabbed over from all the times he had lost or nearly lost his brother, Sam's fault or not. If – and that was a freaking big if – it ever healed, there would be one helluva scar left from every time it was ripped open.

_Oh my god, I'm going to lose him_.

Dean clenched his jaw hard enough to make his bones creak, his muscles locked tight against his teeth. He was losing Sam, he was watching his little brother slip away from him, and once again he couldn't hold on tight enough to keep him. _"We'd be ten miles away from each other, maximum."_ Yeah, ten miles. He always lost Sam right where he could hold him and touch him but could never save him, as if it was the universe's idea of a hellish joke. Ten miles was like inviting Armageddon down on Sam.

This time there would be no way to bring him back; this time, there was nothing he could sell his soul for. Because this time, Sam was still here even as he slipped away, and so far, Dean had done nothing that could stop it.

Running a hand over his mouth, Dean continued to stare at the sink's dull metal drain for a few more minutes. Then, unable to deny the sharp prick of nerves telling him to get back to his brother, Dean turned and left the bathroom, heading for the booth where he'd left Sam. He rounded the corner and reentered the dining room, trying to ignore the rapid thuds in his chest. What he saw, or didn't see, made the thuds grow faster.

The booth was empty.

Fighting down the sickening heave of his stomach at seeing Sam gone, Dean swept the diner and found nothing. "Hey," he called to the woman behind the counter, "You see a tall guy walk out of here?"

The brunette nodded, her ponytail swinging free and peppy. "The _really_ tall one? Yep, left a couple minutes ago. Paid the bill, though, so you should be all clear." Her reassuring smile bounced off of Dean's panic like a tennis ball off a concrete wall.

He bolted across the diner and outside, ignoring the upset squawk of someone inside when the door banged loudly against the wall when he threw it open. The parking lot was about two thirds full, but his eyes went unerringly to the sleek black car that he and Sam had practically grown up in.

Relief slammed into him like a freight train when he caught sight of the tall, hunched figure leaning against the Impala, his back to Dean. He would know those brooding and pensive shoulders anywhere.

"Hey," Dean called, striding quickly to join Sam, "Why'd you leave?" Internally wincing at how girly that had come out, Dean tried to stand straighter.

A twisted smile marred Sam's lips as he turned his head to acknowledge Dean. "Honestly? I was going to walk to the library."

Dean drew even with him tried in vain to catch Sam's eye. "Why didn't you?" He said it in a voice that was too tight, despite his efforts to sound neutral. Sam had wanted to run off, and that was never okay with him.

With a shake of his head, Sam pushed off the car and rounded to the passenger side, his hand resting on the handle. Then, after a hesitation, he looked up. "I figured you were right. It wouldn't be the first time." With that multi-layered statement, Sam opened the car door and slid inside.

Casting aside thoughts of his unfinished burger, Dean climbed in with him and started the engine, not getting feeling the full magic of his baby's rumble this time. Not with Sam sitting next to him looking like someone had shot his dog.

x.x.x.x.x

The drive the morgue took no time at all. The building was a short five blocks from the diner, and by the time they arrived, Sam had gathered himself together and appeared to all the world as if he was the most put-together FBI agent anyone could ask for. As they strode through the front doors, Dean wasn't so sure he looked quite as confident.

The place was small but professional looking and uncommonly beige. Mr. Moreno, who was a pale, fair-haired man in his late thirties or so, greeted them with solemn hospitality. "What can I do for you?" His pale blue eyes flickered from Sam to Dean, white hands folded formally at his front.

Pulling out his counterfeit badge in sync with Dean, Sam answered, "We're here to investigate the deaths at the Cozbi house."

Frowning, Moreno gave their badges a cursory once over before speaking. "I was under the impression that there was to be no more investigation… agent Jeff Neal." The last part was said as if it was an afterthought, but the glint in Mr. Moreno's eye made Sam wary.

"Are you sure," he continued, turning toward Dean, "that you aren't simply mistaken, agent Tom Sholz?"

Dean cocked an eyebrow and glared back. "Dude, why are you saying our full names like that?"

"Surprised by a coincidence, is all. I wasn't under the impression you were musical. I ask again: are you sure?"

"Sure enough that we can get this place shut down in a day if you're refusing your cooperation. That is what you're doing, isn't it?" Sam's tone was cold and sharp, every bit the FBI agent of any badass TV show. From experience, he had found it was better to play the FBI agent people expected, not one that was realistic.

It was enough to take the edge off of Mr. Moreno's steely exterior, especially with the added incentive of Dean resting his hand against his jacket where one would suspect he had a gun holster; another trick he had picked up from evening cop shows.

"Of course not, Agent Neal. We have one of the three bodies still here, if you'd like to take a look."

"Where're the other two?" Dean asked.

"One was released to the family; the other was taken by the FBI yesterday for a more _thorough autopsy_." The bitter tone was enough to let the Winchesters know exactly what the man thought of that. It also let them know why Moreno was so suspicious of them – the FBI had already been through there.

"Damn it, I'll bet Collins was behind that." Dean scowled and shot Sam an irritated look, which was returned with brows minutely furrowed in confusion. "Bastard's got no sense of protocol. If he had any brain cells to spare, he wouldn't have moved the body – probably compromised evidence, while he was at it – and would have let the people here do the jobs they were trained for."

Sam made a noise of resigned agreement, catching onto Dean's angle.

Mr. Moreno responded well; his demeanor became less abrasive, though still slightly wary. "I can believe that – those men were imbeciles, to put it politely."

"At least they left us a shot at solving this thing. Where's the other body?" Dean was all business.

"Come this way." Moreno waved his hand toward a hallway and led the way, taking long, graceful steps that left the taller Winchesters working to keep up.

The actual morgue was smaller than the ones Sam and Dean were used to, but a smaller population meant fewer deaths, ideally. Their guide led the way to the far corner of the room, pulling out one of the large metal drawers.

"Who do we have here?" Dean asked.

"This is a Miss Julia Hoskins. She and her fiancé were looking into the purchase of the Cozbi house." Mr. Moreno reached out a slender hand and drew back the zipper on Miss Hoskins' body bag. The girl was no more than twenty-five years of age, with long blond hair matted together with remnants of blood, all of it standing out against her lightly tanned skin. She was tall and slender, and on one tapered wrist was a winding tattoo of vines that spelled out the word _Merry_.

"Merry?" Sam read it aloud.

"Her younger sister and only family, Meredith Hoskins, I'm assuming. Miss Hoskins was the only member of kin listed on the victim's file."

"She hasn't picked up her sister's body yet?" Dean asked, incredulous.

"She lives somewhere in the Middle East. It's a bit of a trip."

Dean swallowed. He knew that if it was Sam lying there, nothing would keep him from getting there to make sure it wasn't true. Feeling cold at that line of thought, he turned back to Mr. Moreno. "Where's her file?"

"Here." He handed a brown folder to Sam just as a bell sounded somewhere near the front of the mortuary. "If you'll excuse me, that's probably a paying customer." Without so much as a backward glance, Moreno glided out of the room and closed the door behind him, the latch coming together with a loud click.

"What a frea—strange man." Dean quickly swallowing the word _freak_, hoping it wasn't apparent. Not looking at Sam, he leaned in and took a closer look at the body. He couldn't see any cuts or openings that would have let her blood run out of her veins, but run it had.

"I think he recognized our names. _Boston_'s not exactly an underground band."

Dean snorted. "Yeah, he wishes he knew Boston. Probably listens to emo crap – you know, your kind of music."

Not responding, Sam began to rifle through the file. There was a picture of Julia alive, smiling and happy. "Says here she was drained of blood, but they don't know how it got out. Someone noted that it appeared as if it just bled out of her pores, but they're not sure how that could happen to_ all_ of it in such a short time."

"Yeah, well, her being dead means it can probably happen."

"But why would Cozbi's ghost bleed them dry? I mean, he bled out, but not even close to this. It's like… I dunno, man. Something just seems off."

"We can—" Dean was cut off when a sudden commotion from the hall caught his attention.

"What the hell do you mean, I can't see her?" shouted a lower-pitched feminine voice.

"Miss, please, if you'd let me—"

"She's my _sister_, you fu—"

"Keep your voice down! I can't let you back there."

The girl sounded on the brink of angry, violent tears. "I have to take her home. I _promised her_. I didn't even get to say goodbye – I told her I hated her the last time we talked! And for what? A guy – a stupid, freaking _guy_." The voice dropped. "She could've just had him if I'd known…"

"Miss…"

"Get out of my way before I take your damn rules and shove them down your throat!"

"Miss, please! There are two men impersonating federal agents in the back; they're using false names that belong to members of the band Boston. I suspect they're insane. I've locked them in and the police are on their way. If you would just settle down, I'll get you to your sister as fast as I can."

Sam and Dean heard only the incredulous pitch of Meredith Hoskins' voice as they shot each other alarmed looks. Cursing steadily, Dean strode quickly over to the window and yanked on it, his cussing growing louder when the thing didn't budge. "Locked."

"Hurry. Cops in small downs don't have much to keep them busy."

"Working on it," Dean gritted, wrenching his lock picks out of his pocket and going to work. A few short seconds later, the window swung open on stiff hinges.

Dean grunted and levered himself out and onto the pavement below. Sam followed quickly, having to squeeze his shoulders through the opening. He felt the seam of his left sleeve catch and tear over his shoulder as it caught a jut of wood from the window frame. Great, that was going to take stitches.

They were down the street and around the corner by the time they heard sirens. Picking up the pace, they made their way to the car and immediately started it up, wincing as the engine roared to life. It was loud on the practically lifeless street, but no one followed them as they sped away.

"We going back to the motel?" Sam asked, watching as the very domestic houses rolled by his window.

Dean shook his head. "If they take that guy seriously, they'll be looking for us. Might be best to lay low for a few hours."

"You mean this inconspicuous car won't hide us?"

Surprised at the note of humor in Sam's voice, Dean couldn't help but glance at him. Sam didn't look as amused as he sounded. "We'll just find an out of the way place to stash the car and hide out for a while."

"I don't think they have too many strip joints, Dean."

"Funny, but that's not what I meant."

"You were thinking it."

Dean grinned and didn't deny it. Who could say no to strippers? So wiggly and curvy and scantily dressed.

A few minutes and several fantasies later, Dean spotted what looked like a closed restaurant near the middle of town. The name, _Paul's Fishy Foods_, wasn't encouraging; he consoled himself by remembering that they weren't actually going to eat there. It sounded like a pet store. He pulled into the parking lot and settled the Impala behind the back end of a semi truck, the larger vehicle and some low-hanging tree branches hiding it from view.

"Alright, I say we stay here for a while, make sure we weren't followed."

"In the car?"

Dean looked at his brother sharply. "We're not _leaving_ her here, Sam."

"Look, if they find the car with us in it, they'll take it and do terrible things to it, like impound it. Not to mention they'll lock us away for the arsenal alone."

Scowling, Dean had to acknowledge the point even as he was irritated by Sam's flippant attitude toward his car. "Well, where do you suggest we go, Sunshine?"

Sam tilted his head at the closed restaurant. "They have to have a loading area. Lots of boxes or shelves to hide behind – makes it harder to find someone."

"And the alarm?"

"That's really what _you're_ worried about?"

Dean didn't even try to hold back his smug smile. "Nah. Haven't seen one yet I can't work with."

"Too bad you're not the same with people."

Dean scowled. "Yeah, well… back at you."

"Ouch."

"Shut up." Dean pushed his door open and stepped out, followed quickly by Sam.

After making sure that Sam closed his door all the way, Dean took care that the car was all locked down and hidden from any prying eyes. A close inspection wouldn't be thrown off by the Impala's hiding place, but anyone from the road would have a hard time spotting her.

They made their way to the delivery entrance of the restaurant, where Dean made very short work of the lock. With a last forlorn glance back in his baby's direction, he walked inside and dealt with the alarm before it could alert the police. Sam followed him quietly as he worked, his earlier chatter having died off. Dean snorted; how sad that that that was chatty for Sam, now.

"Alright, where do you want to hide?" Dean asked the question as they wound their way around closed boxes and random odds and ends.

"Somewhere out of sight."

Dean turned to shoot a retort back at Sam, but one look at his face told Dean that the kid wasn't joking; that was just all the input he was going to give on the topic. Sam's willingness to do whatever Dean thought was best was at the same time a relief and like a sock to his sternum. He wanted to trust Sam, he really did, but after that last year, he found himself gun-shy.

Instead of replying, Dean cast a critical eye over the storage area. There were sparse boxes lined up like gaped teeth in the gums of metal shelving, wrapping strewn on the floor, and almost everything was appeared shaded from the light layer of gray dust it was sporting. From what he could see, the place had been closed for some time; based on the kinds of food he had seen lying around, there was a definite reason for it.

"Nice place," Dean commented, picking his way over a stack of abandoned cooking pans.

They walked for a minute before coming across the metal door of a canned and dried foods closet. Deciding that was as good a place to duck under the radar as any, Dean motioned for Sam to go in ahead of him. He caught the briefest flash of something on Sam's face, but the emotion was gone before it could be identified. It didn't look good, though. Dean followed him inside, unimpressed by its meager contents. "First rate all the way, this joint."

Sam nodded absently. "Yeah. Just don't let the door—"

The latch clicked shut.

"—close. It, ah, probably locks automatically."

Dean raised his brows and turned back to look at the offending door. One useless yank told him that Sam was correct. "It should open from the inside, right?" Not waiting for an answer, he tried the handle. It stuck. He twisted the knob on the lock, irritated when it spun uselessly. "It's busted. Who the hell didn't get this fixed? It's a fire hazard."

Sam allowed himself a small smile.

"And how was I supposed to know it would do that? Who knows stuff like that? Didn't they expect someone was going to get trapped?" He looked at Sam like he should have the answer.

"I waited in a fast food place that had cheap tendencies, too. They didn't spend a lot on maintenance… or hygiene."

He turned back to Sam, slightly surprised. He wanted to ask if it had been at Stanford – it must have been – but the mention of that time still hammered a nail of regret and anger through him, hurting like few other things could. "Oh," he said instead. He glanced back at the broken lock and flicked it with his index finger, watching it once again flip over without results.

"I think it's still broken," Sam commented.

Dean groaned and rubbed a hand over his face, feeling a fine sheen of sweat begin to develop. "Great. It's not enough that we just got our asses handed to us by a morgue guy; now we're locked in a freaking pantry."

With a shadow of a smile, Sam consoled, "At least there's food."

With a grunt, Dean glanced around at the edibles in the room – there was nothing but canned tuna, large vats of chocolate sauce, random dried foods, and about a million bags of raw grains that smelled a little old. "Mmm, mmm, good. Tuna with chocolate sauce topped with dried peas for some fiber. Tell you what, you can have my share."

"The tuna should be okay."

"Tuna is evil, Sammy. I don't eat evil."

"You just don't like the smell."

"Or the taste, or the texture, or the nasty _odor_."

"But other than that."

Dean shook his head in amusement and went over to the boxes of dried banana chips where Sam now sat fairly comfortably. "Yeah, other than that it's friggin' delightful." He dropped down and slouched against the wall. "You want to get it open or should I?"

Sam shrugged; either way was fine with him. Dean took that as the go-ahead to get out any tools he had for getting through a locked door. He patted Sam's knee, missing his brother's look of surprise as he got up and moved back to the busted lock. He pulled a few things out of his pockets, laying it all out on the floor.

For a minute neither of them saying anything; they didn't know how short a time it would take to get out, but there was something vaguely calming about the silence of the restaurant, though in a slightly creepy, there could be zombies around the corner way. But Dean liked zombies - well, killing them, anyway - so that was no real downside.

Dean got to work on the lock, frustrated when he realized the thing was going to take more time and effort than he wanted to give.

Several seconds ticked by as Dean battled with the trashed lock, and in that time he was content with thinking about nothing else. There wasn't much time during his days in which he didn't think about what had or would go wrong in their lives.

"I didn't plan on it, you know."

Dean opened his eyes, not having realized they were closed; he didn't always need his sight to work with locks, even mangled ones. "Huh?" He shot Sam a look.

Eyes locked onto his hands as if he'd only just discovered them, Sam gave a small shrug. He looked oddly small sitting on that box of bananas. "When I – uh – with the – with the blood."

Immediately Dean's attention focused solely on Sam; for weeks Sam had told him very little about anything to do with his mojo, the demon blood or breaking the seal. He had shared only what Dean, Bobby and Castiel needed to know, which wasn't anywhere near enough for Dean.

"Yeah?" Dean prodded gently, trying to keep from staring, letting his hands drop onto his knees. His mind began to race, trying to pick his steps before Sam spoke, determined to keep his little brother from shutting down before he finished what he had to say.

"After…Jack Montgomery, when I swore I'd stop everything with my powers, I just – I just wanted to let you know that I did. For a while, anyway. I didn't use them, I didn't drink the blood. Nothing." Sam's head tilted up, bangs sliding away from his forehead to reveal clear, sincere eyes.

For a moment, doubt wrapped Dean tightly in its maddening straightjacket of disbelief. But the way Sam looked at him... Dean wanted to believe him. God, he wanted to believe him. The things Sam had hidden from him, outright lied to him about, they weren't things he could just shrug off. All his life he had been able to trust that Sam would tell him the truth, even when it hurt. Sam had told him about Stanford, though it ripped Dean and their family apart; he told Dean about his visions, even when Dean's job was to hunt things that were supernatural.

Now, Dean had no idea what he could believe, if anything. Where once he could see through Sam like glass, albeit slightly foggy glass, now it was almost impossible for him to figure out what was going on in the guy's head. But they had to start somewhere, and here was as good a place as any. Bobby, Dean thought with a wry twitch of his lips, would be thrilled they were talking.

"So what happened?" Dean started back up on the lock, needing to do something to still the slight tremble in his hands. He kept his gaze on Sam.

A sadness shadowed Sam's face; it was a look Dean didn't ever want to see on his brother, trustworthy or not. The look was despair and tacit acceptance of failure – it was one he'd seen before and one he'd worn on occasion. It never preceded anything good.

"Sammy?" Dean tried again. Metal clicked against metal as he fished around inside the lock.

Sam seemed to be fighting with himself, trying to decide what was too much to say. Finally, it seemed he had lost. "I didn't want to be doing this when I was an old man. I didn't want you to be doing this when you're old – hell, I wanted you to _grow_ old. I just needed it to end." His voice had an edge of desperation.

Dean's blood turned to ice and a rock the size of his head dropped low into his belly.

_Do you think we will? _

_What? _

_Die before we get old. _

_Haven't we both already?_

"I was just…" Sam barked a laugh, low and horrible. "I was a damn idiot is what I was." He leaned back against the wall, tilting his chin toward the far wall as his eyes skimmed over the room, his mind deep in the past.

_I mean, do you think we'll still be chasing demons when we're sixty. _

_No. I think we'll be dead. For good._

"Sam…" Dean's throat closed over the rest of what he wanted to say, the words crowding and jostling around each other: You know that's not what I meant, right? Why the hell didn't you come to me about this? It's not my fault you decided to go back for another hit – it's not…But I wasn't there for you – I might as well have fed it to you myself. I'm not gonna just let you go, you know that, right?

None of it came out; it stuck to his palate and between his teeth, cemented inside of him.

"Shoulda listened to you, man. It's like Dad said: you disobey and order and someone's going to die. And now the whole world gets to pay for my freaking mistakes."

Guts writhing gently, Dean shifted to turn more toward Sam. Trust issues or not, Dean often had a hard time sitting and letting Sam beat himself up. "Sam, you did what you thought had to be done…" And he couldn't say more than that, couldn't say 'You didn't know, you couldn't have known, it's okay," because Dean thought he _should_ have known, _had _to have suspected, and it wasn't okay. He still wondered why in world Sam had done what he did. Ruby was _a demon_ for crying out loud. That right there should have been a freaking huge, slut-shaped alarm bell for him.

"Right," Sam snorted, "What I thought I was doing – I thought it would stop the apocalypse, kill Lilith and leave me dead or too far gone to come back. At this point I'd take the last part and be happy."

Anger hit Dean harder and faster than he expected, making him inhale sharply through his nose. He hated it, _hated_ _it_, when Sam talked so easily about giving up and lying down to die – like he was worth nothing. Dean wanted to hit him and crush him in a hug at the same time. As betrayed and frustrated as he felt, Sam's death was still not an option. Never would be, so long as he was around.

Once again, his words failed him, frozen in their deep paralysis of indecision before they could reach the quickly-warming air of the storage room, and he said nothing. He felt something give inside the lock and knew he had it.

"Sorry," Sam murmured, dropping his head down to stare once again at his fascinating fingers, "Don't know why I told you all that. Just didn't want you thinking I lied about – about everything."

Before he could pull back and stall for enough time to talk to Sam, muscle memory had him pushing through to the last step with the busted door – the lock clacked as it slid out of the wall, letting them go free. And then, to his shame, he wasn't sure how much more he wanted to hear.

Sam stood and brushed off the back of his pants, his hands twitching slightly, as if they wanted to bury themselves in his pockets. He hadn't done that in quite some time, and it was an emo gesture Dean had never given much thought to; it was also one he missed.

"So, new hiding corner?" Sam asked with false cheer.

"Yeah, guess so." Dean was mentally kicking himself as they filed out of the closet, the sounds of their boots muffled by the dusty concrete floor.

They found an out of the way cranny on the second floor, where they waited a little over an hour, neither of them talking. After that, Dean got too bored to sit still any longer, and Sam grew tired of listening to Dean hum Metallica after the eighth round of _Master of Puppets_. They returned to the car to find that it had remained untouched. Sam was silently grateful, knowing that Dean would have gone on a rampage had his bab—his car been touched. That would have made staying undercover a little harder.

Twenty minutes later they were in their motel room, keeping their heads down in case the police decided to do an actual search; like Sam had said, they didn't have a whole lot else to do in a place with less than eight thousand occupants.

Dean was sitting with his feet up on the couch, the TV muted as he flipped aimlessly through the channels. "So, now what?"

Just like that, neither of them addressed the elephant between them; or the rest of the zoo it brought with it.

Sam shrugged, not looking up from the stitches he was putting into the shoulder of his charcoal jacket – he didn't have many dress clothes left, so he salvaged whenever possible. Shopping hadn't been on the top of his to-do list the past year. He shifted his seated position on the bed, sure he had bruised something in their window escape. "We have the file. 'Guess we go to the house next."

"Yeah, and do what? He was cremated – what are we supposed to do, burn the whole place down? He's got sentimental stuff lining the walls, any of which his spirit could be hanging onto." Dean didn't sound entirely opposed to the idea of lighter fluid and fire.

"It's gotta be something that meant more to him that the rest. Maybe he gave his wife a lock of his hair or something." Sam frowned when Dean pulled a face at him. "What? People did stuff like that back then."

"Sorry to burst your romantic bubble, kiddo, but I'm not sure anyone's done that since the 1800s, and maybe not even then."

"Fine. We'll just burn the house to the ground, save us the time. Arson is always fun."

Dean scowled at Sam's sardonic tone. "Whatever, man. But we'll have to wait 'til tomorrow; the police will be out tonight."

"Doubt they're that diligent," Sam muttered.

Quickly tying off the end of his thread, Sam took it into his mouth and snapped it between his teeth.

"You'll make someone a good little wife one day, Sam. Look at those tiny stitches." Dean's smirk didn't need to be seen to be felt.

"Shut up."

x.x.x.x.x

Dean shut the door quietly behind him, careful not to wake Sam up. He had finally gone to sleep after two in the morning; Dean had heard him shifting almost every twenty seconds. Once Sam's breathing had evened out in slumber, Dean had grabbed his phone and made his way outside. The night was chilly and clear, stars standing out like specks of plaster spattering a dark rug; as if God wasn't yet finished with his creation. Dean held back a flat smile at the thought.

Moving a few feet away from his room door, but not far enough that he couldn't see and hear if Sam was in trouble, Dean flipped his phone open and hit Bobby's speed dial number. He had promised Bobby he would check in and let him know that he didn't have to "come save your asses from whatever the hell trouble you've dropped right into." There were a few rings on the other end before the call was picked up. Bobby's voice had not a hint of sleep in it, making Dean wonder what the older hunter had been up to.

_"Dean. It's about time I heard from you boys. I was beginning to wonder if the hunt was too much so soon."_

"Nice to talk to you too, Bobby." Dean couldn't help a slight grin at his friend's gruff voice; none of them were good at hiding worry. "And no, it's no problem, just a little tricky. Bit of trouble with the police, but nothing serious."

Bobby snorted. _"Figures. You two never were ones to steer clear of trouble."_

Dean nodded unthinkingly, silent for a few moments clearing his throat. "Sam talked to me today."

_"Ah."_ Bobby wasn't going to ask, but he would listen.

"He, uh, said he hadn't planned on…everything. Said he'd quit for a while, but it didn't last. He told me…he gave me a reason for it. You know, why he started up again."

_"Huh. 'S good he's opening up,"_ Bobby said, cautious.

"It's just… how am I supposed to believe anything he tells me, Bobby?"

_"You think he would he lie about that?"_

"I don't know. He was willing to do _anything_, Bobby. I can't just…"

_"Forgive 'im?"_

Dean frowned at the tone in Bobby's voice. "That's not what I meant."

_"It's what you're doin'."_

"He lied to me, Bobby; for a whole year."

_"And you've never lied to him? Weren't planning to lie to him that day after Cold Oak?"_

"That was different," Dean growled. And not just because he got caught sooner.

There was a sigh on Bobby's end of the line. _"Maybe. You were both tryin' to do the same thing: protect each other."_

"Intentions are everything, then, huh? Doesn't matter what he did so long as he meant well."

_"Don't snap at me. 'Course it matters what he did, but what he meant by it also means something. Just don't go pushing him outta your life because you feel hurt. Besides, I'm bettin' that kid's hurting enough for himself and six other people, right about now."_

With a sigh of his own, Dean slouched against the wall, the cheap stucco digging into his shoulder blades. "It's not even that he lied to me, Bobby; it's that I can't trust him anymore."

There was a second of silence on the other end. _"I see how bad you're hurting, Dean. But one of you is gonna have to take the first step if you want this fixed. Seems to me Sam's started in that direction. You know he don't give stuff up easy."_

"Yeah, Sam's about as secretive as they come."

_"Looks like he's trying to change that."_

"What if he's not? What if this is another cover for something else he doesn't think he can tell me?"

_"Then,"_ Bobby started, the sounds of chair legs shifting against floors coming through the phone,_ "You're going to have to make a choice. Either you work on trusting your brother, or you let him go. He's not gonna stick around with you watching him and waiting for him to hurt you again."_

Trust or let go. Both sounded impossible to Dean. "What if I can't do either?" He hated the note of desperation in his voice, but bit back at his embarrassment; he needed advice.

_"Then he's gonna choose. And if you won't let him choose you, he's either gonna leave you in spirit or leave altogether. I don't think either of those is something you want."_

"And...what if I leave him?"

Bobby's reply was as quiet as Dean's question had been: _"I don't think that's what you want, either."_

Dean stared across the parking lot at a house with one light on. Someone moved across the curtained window, spilling their shadow onto the fabric for Dean to see. It was someone who had no idea what horrors the world had in store for him. "I just want my brother." Dean said it softly, his voice breaking gently.

_"Then go get him."_

As Dean hung up the phone, he felt doubt creep into his mind once again; he didn't think it would be as simple as that. He couldn't bring Sam back if his brother didn't want to return. And there was only so long Dean could chase him.

x.x.x.x.x

Inside the motel room, Sam woke with a shallow gasp, desperately flailing for the light. He snapped on the lamp, his eyes squinting as they tried to adjust. Heart thundering, forehead and neck coated in cold sweat, Sam tried to still the shaking of his hands. He pressed his back tight against the headboard, trying to escape from a monster made of smoke and created by blood.

It couldn't have been real, he told himself unconvincingly; it was _just_ a dream.

A black headache pounded through his skull, making his eyes feel swollen in their sockets. He pressed shuddering fingers to his head, wincing against the pain. His jaw ached bad enough that he seriously considered ripping it off.

He sat still, not moving for fear of enraging his migraine. After a few moments, as he knew it would, it began to fade away, gone just as suddenly as it had arrived.

He glanced over at Dean's bed, gut yanked viciously by alarm when he found no one there. Just then, Sam heard the murmur of his big brother's voice from outside the motel room; the sound broke the thick fingers of panic that had begin to suffocate him, removing the steel-cold nails of fear that had dug into his flesh. Trying to even out his breathing, Sam resisted the urge to leap up and go to Dean; e sounded like he was on the phone, and he didn't think his brother would appreciate being interrupted, not if he had taken the call outside. Who he was talking to mattered not at all; Dean was okay.

Head throbbing dully with the aftereffects from the headache, Sam clenched his sheets between the fingers of his left hand, still shaken from his dream."It wasn't real," he assured himself, running a clammy palm over his face to wipe away the sweat, "It's not happening."

_And if you're wrong?_ his mind asked softly, tauntingly.

"I'm not," he snapped. He closed his eyes, biting his lip hard enough that he almost drew blood. "I'm not."

Slowly, he laid back down on the rough fabric of the pinkish sheets, reaching a hand out to turn out the light. He kept his eyes open in the darkness, expecting any number of horrors to leap out at him from his mind. Despite his vehement denial, Sam didn't stop himself from muttering a short prayer - to whom, he no longer knew. He only hoped that someone other than angels was listening. If there was no one, he wasn't sure what to do.

"It won't happen," he whispered to the quiet room, "It won't."

Even as he slipped back into the inky swell of unconsciousness, Sam's mind reminded him viciously: _You know better than that._

x.x.x.x.x

"How do you know she's not showing someone the house right now? We walk in there with shotguns and no one's going to care they don't have real shot in them."

"I called her to let her know we were going to take a look around, and she said we'd have the place to ourselves. I told you that earlier."

"Yeah, whatever. Just making sure; the last thing we need is another surprise on top of whatever's in that house."

Sam and Dean had spent the remainder of yesterday and the daytime hours of the day after researching the Cozbi house and watching bad daytime TV; for Sam, it had been almost like the Twilight Zone to be doing such normal things with Dean again. He wasn't sure it would last.

Sam was hoping that only a day and a half would be enough time for the police to have lessened their search for the morgue intruders. They had to get to the house and try to stop the spirit before someone else became a victim. Mrs. Cozbi seemed to be disinclined to sell again very soon, but people not in the hunting profession tended to brush off supernatural deaths when given enough time, telling themselves that of course it was an accident; there is no such thing as ghosts, monsters, demons.

The research had turned up very little tragedy in the house's history. It had been inhabited by rich, single people for most of its existence, with the exception of the Cozbi family. Sam had also done some digging on the family itself, and curiously came up with a history that seemed consistently happy and with no more the normal amount of troubles. Generally, houses like that had their fair share of spilled blood, what with the generous estates the inhabitants possessed. There was usually a homicidal nephew or three.

After night had fallen, Dean and Sam had ended up parking the Impala a few streets away from the Cozbi place, wanting to be able to get away with reasonable ease if the police got involved or if they had to make a break for it. Having someone find and take the Impala would make their lives unreasonably difficult. Well, _more_ unreasonably difficult.

At the moment, they were trudging down some street with the word "Blossom" in it; it was an apt name, considering the row after row of plants and flowers in front of every house. Sam wondered idly how anyone had the time to do the upkeep required for large gardens, and he wondered what it would be like to have a garden at all. He would never have one, he knew, even if he wanted one. Jess had had a window box with petunias, but those had died rather quickly. He had loved her, but she had had about as much luck with plants as Sam had with anything else in life: not much.

"What I don't get is why Mr. Cozbi's ghost is still haunting the place," Sam commented as they passed bushels of flowers that had yellow funnels on top of light green stems. There were a ton of them.

"He was shot twice by his son-in-law; most people would haunt their in-laws for less than that." Dean eyed the plants as they passed them, his nose wrinkling. "Smells weird."

"They're skunk cabbage. They're supposed to smell like that."

"Why the _hell_…"

"Focus on the ghost, Dean."

Dean exhaled impatiently. "Look, man, it was a violent death. It's a classic vengeful spirit story, which is why we took this gig. I don't know what else to tell you about it."

Sam held back a frustrated sigh, giving the skunk cabbages a withering glare as he passed them. Absently, he brushed a hand against the pocket of his jacket that held his flask of holy water. A sharp pang of guilt ricocheted through him at the touch; it had been a while since he had needed to carry holy water on his person, and his flasks hadn't been filled with that liquid for some time.

He didn't know what had happened to him after he had broken the last seal, and he didn't know what had happened with his powers. He hadn't seen a demon since then – something that both relieved and worried him – and he hadn't tried to use his powers, afraid to find out what he had done to himself. Dean hadn't asked, either. Maybe he was scared, or maybe he didn't care. Sam didn't want to find out which.

The sound of voices, laughter and music reached Sam's ears and dispersed his morose thoughts before he rounded the corner onto the next street. The sight that met his eyes was enough to make him nervous; there was some sort of neighborhood party going on. There were people grilling in the street, kids playing with brightly painted bouncing balls, and a couple little girls lighting off small fireworks.

The whole place was happy enough and bright enough that it wouldn't look out of place in a Thomas Kinkade painting. Disturbed that he even knew who the artist was, Sam tried to focus on something else.

"Welcome, neighbors!" called a ridiculously cheery voice.

Sam and Dean turned to see a middle aged woman hurrying up to them, her blond hair tied back in a short ponytail. She was attractive and happy-looking, smiling as she reached out a hand to shake theirs. Dean snickered when her hand disappeared entirely inside Sam's.

"You two must be the newcomers on Main Street, right?" the woman asked.

"Uh, yeah." Dean nodded, having a hard time keeping his eyes off of the crowd of happy families. It wasn't a sight common to his world.

"Well, it's nice to meet you. I'm Maureen Waters, and those are my two girls over there with the fireworks." She grinned widely as she watched the girls, maybe about ten or so years of age, both of them blond and pretty like their mother, lighting off more sparkling fountains of fire. "Little pyros, they are. I had to train them in fire safety very early in life, let me tell you."

"Right, well, we should be going," Dean tried, edging away from her.

"Nonsense! You haven't tried Christa's apple pie, yet, mister…?"

"Gelbowitz," Sam supplied, picking a name from one of his IDs and ignoring the snort Dean gave at the name – it was a name Dean had picked for him, and it was the one that had led to Sam making all of his own IDs.

"Ah, well, you have to try it. It's famous around here; absolutely delicious."

Sam glanced at Dean, noticing the way his brother's eyes widened with desire at the mention of pie.

"Nice to have you, boys. Now, don't you worry; we're all modern here, and we accept people with any race, culture or sexual preference. Just come with me and we'll get you some food," Maureen said, seeming genuinely happy to have them show up at the party.

"Oh, uh, no, we're not—"

"No, he's my—"

Maureen brushed them off with an absent wave of her hand. "You don't have to give it a title, boys. That's just fine. We'll take you as you are."

Giving a nod of her head as if to say the topic was closed, Maureen stepped between them and took their elbows, leading them toward a table with a large array of deserts. As he was towed along, Sam vaguely wondered what it was about them that sent off vibes that screamed "couple." It had to be something about Dean, he was sure; Sam was included only by association, surely.

"The pie's on this end – you boys look like you're pie people – and brownies, cakes and cookies are over here. That's Christa's apple pie; make sure you get some of that." Maureen reached out and grabbed two paper plates with blue flower print twisting around the edges, passing one to each Winchester.

"Thanks." Dean accepted the plate with a nod, his eyes drawn back toward the pies.

"Very kind of you to let us join you all." Sam took his plate and eyed the table of food. There was a lot of pie – at least six different kinds. He saw the way Dean was looking at it and knew he was willing to stay for a few minutes, at least until the persistent Maureen took off.

"It's our pleasure, boys. We have a block party like this at least once a year. This one's a little more out there since we haven't had one in about eighteen months. There have been a few tragedies for some of us," Maureen confided sadly, her bright blue eyes darkening with her thoughts.

"We heard something about that. So sorry."

Before Maureen could reply, a brunette woman appeared at her side and gave her a one-armed hug as she looked over the newcomers. "Maureen, sweetie, who are these handsome young men?"

"Barb, these are the boys who moved in down on Main Street. Gelbowitz, right?"

Sam nodded in affirmation, feeling Dean shift away from him and toward the pies, no doubt hearing the irresistible siren song of flaky pastry and sugary filling. It was a call his brother had never been able to deny. Pie was his second mistress, after the Impala.

"How do you two like our Dr. Waters, here? She's the supervising surgeon at the hospital," Barb bragged for her friend.

That caught Sam's attention – the woman didn't look old enough to have such a position, especially with two daughters in her care, which was sure to be time consuming. But then energy didn't seem to be a problem for her.

"Hush, now. These two are hungry for Christa's pies. You boys let us know if you need anything. Alright? Come on, Barb." Maureen gave them a wink and a wave before steering Barb toward another group of people.

"She's…energetic," Dean observed briefly before making a beeline for the pie. He cut a slice of three different kinds and plopping himself down at a vacant folding table. Burying his fork in a purple slice, he raised it to his lips and took a bite. Bliss was the only word to describe the emotion on his face. "Oh yeah," he moaned in pleasure.

"Dude, it's scary how emotionally involved you are with that dessert." Sam took a seat across from Dean, setting his empty plate next to his elbow.

Even through his pie-loving haze, Dean's eyes flickered to Sam's unused paper dish. He said nothing, but his bites slowed somewhat as he worked his way through the food. Sam glanced away, not wanting to see the suspicion he was sure Dean was feeling. He could just hear his brother's thoughts: _Why isn't he eating? He didn't eat when he was drinking that bitch's blood, either…_ and the natural conclusions that would follow. But still he couldn't summon the will to eat anything.

"Can't fight angry ghosts on an empty stomach." Dean's words were muffled by bits of fruit and crust that he had crushed between his teeth.

"Wouldn't dream of asking that of you," Sam replied with all the humor he could muster – it wasn't a lot.

"I think there's some Brussels sprouts over there if you're interested, Betty."

Sam sidestepped the jab. "Nah, I'm good."

Dean muttered something Sam didn't catch.

Fifteen minutes and four slices of pie later, Sam and Dean were on their way toward the edge of the block party. Sam could practically feel the full contentment coming off of Dean – it must have been one hell of a pie buffet. He felt himself relax the tiniest bit, happy that for once Dean wasn't preparing for when Sam screwed up again; happy that for once he wasn't screwing up.

Dean, distracted by pie, and Sam, distracted by pie-distracted Dean, didn't see the attack coming.

The heavy body plowed into Sam from the back, wrenching his arms, preventing him from softening his fall as he was slammed into the concrete with enough force to empty his lungs.

He felt his head crack against something sharp, and then warm stickiness was flowing over his brow as he struggled to breathe. His lungs refused to cooperate; stubbornly rejecting the air offered them even when his attacker jumped off of him, no doubt to fend off Dean.

Sam struggled to get his arms under himself, growing dizzy from the blow to his head and his inability to breathe properly. His left hand slipped in slick red on asphalt, but it didn't hold his attention. The next second he heard Dean give a yell of pain, and that was all it took for his body to give him enough adrenaline rise onto his knees and then stagger to his feet.

He swung around as fast as he dared, heart pounding behind his ribs when he didn't immediately see Dean. His blood turned to ice in his veins when he found him; Dean was on the ground, covered in blood, his face turning red-purple from the grip his assailant had around his throat. The guy was a huge white man with hands the size of snow shovels, blood soaking his shirt as well.

"You should have _stayed away_," the man growled, squeezing tighter.

Dean's hands scrabbled desperately at the guy's shoulders and face, scoring his skin deeply, none of it doing any good. Even when in the next split second he had out a knife and stabbed the guy in the chest, the man showed no reaction other than anger and violence.

Sam saw red and forgot about his breathing, forgot about the people milling around them, forgot about everything but one. Something in him snapped as Dean began to lose consciousness, his struggles slowing. Without thinking, Sam reached out a hand toward the stranger. Immediately, he knew it was no demon. Or, there was something… a shadow, something new to him; he didn't care.

He scrambled for his dropped back and pulled out his sawed off, leveled it at the guy's head, and took a guess as to what he was. "Cozbi," he barked.

The man's head turned.

Sam pulled the trigger.

With a shout, the possessed man jerked away from Dean, releasing his neck as he fell to the ground, his huge chest and bald head riddled with salt and leaking blood.

Sam stumbled toward Dean, only just starting to really breathe again. He fell to his knees put two fingers to Dean's wrist, not wanting to aggravate his throat. A fluttery pulse beat beneath his finger, flooding him with relief that made him dizzy. Or it could have been a concussion…

"Dean?" The word came out broken and shaky.

Dean's eyes twitched under their lids before they fluttered open slowly. He made a choked sound that could have been Sam's name or a curse, with either being likely. His hand scrabbled for Sam's, but quit halfway through its search as he struggled to draw breath in through his bruised throat. Dean's eyes stayed on Sam, riveted to his forehead. Sam barely noticed the slide of blood over the side of his face.

"Hey, it's okay, I'll get you back to the motel. Just relax; I took care of it, Dean." Sam felt tears crowd into his mouth, competing with his limited oxygen, and he bit down hard to keep them at bay. He placed a gentle hand on Dean's shoulder, trying not to grip too tight, but needing to know Dean was still there, that he hadn't failed again. "I've got you, man." His eyes roamed his brother's body, looking for other injuries. He found none, realizing that all the blood belonged to Cozbi's ex-host.

Dean frowned at him, opened his mouth as if he wanted to say something, and then was sucked back into the dark, liquid pool of unconsciousness, leaving Sam alone with seventy shocked partiers. Carefully, he began to gather Dean into his arms, trying to push through the fog around his head to figure out how to get to the car without being followed. Shock would be on his side, though. The crowd's shock, not his own.

Suddenly there was a small, firm hand on his arm, making him lay Dean back down. He looked up to protest and came face-to-face with Maureen.

"Don't move him, sweetie. We don't know what damage there is. I've called the paramedics, and they should be here soon." Maureen's words barely penetrated the white noise that was sawing through Sam's ears.

Sam shook his head and almost puked when the world was wrenched off its axis. He took a reasonably deep breath. "No, no, I have to…Dean…"

"He'll be okay, hon. Just stay with me, alright? You might have a concussion." Maureen's hands were on his neck and shoulder then, cool and stabilizing.

Her face swam in front of Sam's eyes, and he fought the twin urges to gag and just drop over onto the comfortable asphalt. Dean needed him… or, no, maybe he didn't…? Sam felt confused for a moment, dizzy, unsure of why he felt Dean wouldn't want his help. And then it all came back, dark and sharp as a shard of ebony, fueling his illness and his resolve.

"I'm okay," he said deliberately, pulling gently away from Maureen's helpful grip, "I just need to take him home."

"Not a good idea. We don't want him to— oh, the paramedics are here. Come on." Maureen tried to steer him away from Dean, but Sam refused to be budged; if they took Dean away, he would lose it – he could feel it, the buzzing of chaos below his flesh.

He realized there would be no fighting the paramedics, but that didn't mean he was going to let them take his brother anywhere without him. Something was wrong with the whole hunt, and Sam had no idea what it was – his failure to figure it out had just landed his brother in the hospital…or nearly.

"Sir, move aside, please," came the commanding order from one of the paramedics. Obayomi, his tag said.

"He's my…I need to go with him." Sam put as much insistence as he could behind the words, unsure of how it sounded without the ringing in his ears.

"They're together," Maureen spoke up, her tone leaving no room for disagreement.

"Of course, Dr. Waters. Sir, step back for a moment, please."

Sam looked down at the short man, his dark brown skin blurring with the blue of his uniform in Sam's line of sight. "Yeah, okay."

"We'll take a look at you in a second." Obayomi met his eyes reassuringly.

"No, just Dean."

"Sir…"

"_No_."

The paramedic frowned but said nothing further as he went back to Dean. In a matter of minutes Sam was riding in the back of the ambulance with his brother, watching from a corner as the paramedics discussed something or other about his condition. Along with "could have crushed his larynx," and "going to have nasty bruises," he heard "not too serious," and "not life-threatening," and so he allowed himself to drift just a bit.

He drifted right into the jagged rocks that lined the shores of his biggest regrets; this time, it was that Dean was always hurt because of his failure to protect him, to watch his back like Dean had always done for him. That thought stayed with him even as they arrived at the hospital, even as he gave the receptionist the insurance card of Mr. Anthony Gelbowitz.

The next minutes were a rush of trying to stay by Dean, not lose Dean, make sure they were taking care of Dean; trying to believe what the paramedics said about him recovering with relative ease.

Because if there was no Dean, he couldn't think of a reason for there to be a Sam.

* * *

I hope this chapter makes sense. I'm trying to balance the Dean I think the show will use and the Dean I want, and I don't know how they'll make Sam, so I'm totally making that up.

Last thing. The motel room and the grapefruit figurine? I've actually stayed somewhere almost exactly like that. So, so weird. I figured the guys would enjoy it. :)


	3. Chapter 3

I've had this done for more than a week, but I haven't had the chance to post it. It's way, WAY longer than I meant it to be. But this site says it has like 2,500 more words than my Word program does... I don't know. I gave up trying to figure this site out.

So, we see more amazing Winchester communication. It's almost impressive how much they don't say.

* * *

_"Is it better to out-monster the monster or to be quietly devoured?"  
-- Friedrich Nietzsche_

Dean didn't want to wake up, at least not for a while. It was too easy to just lie there in the semi-uncomfortable hospital cot, no danger circling in wait for him to make a mistake. Sam was with him and safe – he could hear him next to the bed, no doubt scrunched down into one of those little hospital chairs.

So he kept his eyes shut and regulated his breathing, content to listen to Sam's small movements next to his bed. He was a little disoriented, and wasn't exactly sure what had happened – something about a psycho jumping them both – but he remembered pie, so it couldn't have been all bad. But…

Ice slid quick and heavy into his belly, making him feel ill. Two years ago, there had been pie and then there had been no Sam. And no Sam was always,_ always_ bad, pie or not.

But then he remembered: Sam was next to him, so it was okay.

He took a couple moments to note his injuries, feeling his throat throb in protest and his back ache as he shifted slightly. His head felt like it had gotten banged around some, though he didn't think it had been split open. That was always nice.

Just as he began to drift once again, he was roused by the sticky padding of nurse's shoes approaching the room at a brisk pace, his muscles tensing of their own accord. That was the sound of a nurse with a mission, which usually came right before they were kicked out of the hospital for having insufficient insurance. Ah well, the peace was nice while it lasted.

"Mr. Gelbowitz?" asked a clipped female voice.

Yep, an irate nurse.

Dean heard Sam rise to his feet and adjust his jacket. "Yeah?" Sam asked.

"You realize the level of ordeal you and your brother went through, don't you?"

"Yes," Sam responded, sounding a bit lost and a lot irritated.

"The hospital seriously advises you to—"

"I told you no."

"I don't think you realize the problems that could arise from this. It would only take minutes, and you need to—"

There was the scrape of boot soles on the disgustingly clean floor of the room. Dean could just see Sam's face – pinched lips and sharp cheekbones compounded by the "I'm not talking about this"look that was sure to slit the throat of any conversation.

The nurse sighed in frustration. "May I speak to you for a moment in the hall?"

Sam must have acquiesced, because a moment later the two were headed out into the hallway. Dean strained to hear what was going on, feeling worry begin to suck an uncomfortable bruise into the back of his neck. He could make out the terse murmur of the nurse's voice interspersed with Sam's deep, stubborn rumble. He couldn't understand a word until the nurse began to raise her voice.

" —you've sustained sufficient trauma to warrant an examination, Mr. Gelbowitz."

_What the hell?_

Sam's voice was harder to understand. "…don't need…alone…"

"There could be complications that you can't predict. Refusing medical attention won't help you or your bro—"

"_Stop_."

Silence.

"If I feel that I need medical attention, I'll get it. Until then, the only thing I want to hear is how my brother is doing."

There was a last murmur from the nurse before Dean heard her retreating footsteps as they faded down the hall. Dean's fists clenched under the thin hospital blanket, nails biting crescent moons into his palms. The idiot had _refused medical treatment_. There were times when that was okay, but when there were nurses concerned enough to hound Sam's ass, that was _not_ fine.

He wanted to sit up and rip the kid a new one, he wanted to smack some sense into him… he wanted Sam to let him take care of his little brother again. Sam needed it and god, so did Dean.

"Dean?"

Dean nearly jumped, though the asking voice was soft. He blinked and was met with the sight of eyes an inch away from his own eyes. Without thinking, he jerked back, immediately regretting it when Sam's face fell a bit and the kid quickly drew away. Dean felt his absence sharply, the air stretched and thin where Sam used to be.

"Yeah?" His voice cracked from disuse and damage. He was thirsty, Dean realized with a tightening of his throat.

As if Sam had read his mind, a glass of water and a small painkiller were instantly at his side. He took both with a grunt of thanks, gratefully that the pill wasn't large as he swallowed it down with more difficulty than usual. When he handed the half-empty glass back to Sam, his brother gave a small smile.

"The nurses here hate me. We need to head out soon. Do you… are you okay to travel?"

Dean quickly catalogued Sam's new array of cuts and bruises, and checking him closely for other injuries. The long gash over his left eyebrow drew his attention, but it had been cleaned and had two butterfly bandages over it. It was a hasty first aid job probably done by Sam.

Dean held back a wince and nodded slowly to answer Sam's question, his head swimming a bit. Sam frowned like he didn't believe him, but returned the nod all the same.

"You got my clothes?"

"Uh, they were covered in blood, so I had to get you something else." Sam leaned down and pulled a bag out from under his chair. He dug out a t-shirt that had "I Heart Stockton" spelled across it in curly red letters, and to go with that were a pair of gray sweats. "Gift shop," he said unnecessarily.

"Yeah, got that," he grumbled. Dean frowned as he took the clothes, his throat sore as anything. "Whose blood?" Suddenly it was very important to know; it wasn't his blood, he could feel it. If it wasn't his blood…

"The guy who jumped you. You shot him a few times and took a chunk out of his shoulder with your knife before he choked you out," Sam supplied, seemingly oblivious to why Dean almost freaked out about the blood, "But he was kind of big and possessed by Cozbi's angry spirit. The police said he was on something, too." Sam gave a half grin. "Can't do anything the easy way."

Giving a noncommittal grunt that sounded vaguely like "Damn straight," Dean slowly sat up, shook Sam's hand off, and swung his legs off the bed. It took him only a few minutes to get dressed, taking longer when he resisted leaning on Sam for balance as he put on the sweats.

"They drugged me up," he complained, swaying as he got his last foot through the sweats. He planted it on firm ground.

"Not too bad," Sam offered, "It was probably more the lack of oxygen and the hit you took to your head."

"Dude, why are we here, anyway? You've taken care of worse stuff than me being unconscious."

"Remember Maureen? She wouldn't let me move you."

"The only time we don't need a doctor, we find one. I don't know, man, our luck is screwed up."

Giving a darkened smile, Sam nodded in agreement. "That's a way to put it."

Sooner than Dean thought they would be able to, he and Sam were out of the hospital and out in the parking lot. Unable to help the rush of gratitude when he saw the Impala sitting sleek and beautiful in the parking lot, Dean turned to Sam with a question in his eyes.

"I wasn't going to go get it, but I thought the police might notice it. I had Maureen stay with you," Sam explained, seemingly impassive.

Dean didn't buy it; Sam's voice was too still, and his arms were stiff; all signs that Sam was unhappy about something. Having to leave Dean, most likely, which kind of explained his icy refusal to be away again. "Thanks. Uh, Maureen seems nice."

"Yeah."

When Dean automatically walked toward the driver's side, Sam put a hand on his arm to stop him. "What?" Dean demanded.

"I'll drive."

"Dude, I'm totally fine to drive."

"You were just in the hospital."

"Yeah, but it wasn't life-threatening or anything."

Sam sighed. "You were completely unconscious when the paramedics arrived, Dean. Life-threatening or not, it wasn't exactly good for your health."

"Paramedics… Where're the guns?"

"Somehow in all the panic they got shoved under some party stuff. Everything was still there when I went, so I found 'em and picked them up when I went back for the car. They had some food on them, but other than that not a scratch."

Dean nodded, slightly relieved. "Good, that's good. I'm still driving."

"No, you're not. Besides, you don't have the keys."

Dean held out his hand. Sam shook his head and moved around him to the driver's door. "Are you sure _you're_ okay to drive?" Dean asked pointedly, letting his hand drop in silent surrender – silent, _temporary_ surrender.

Sam gave him half a smile. "Not the one who was choked unconscious, Dean."

With a muted grumble, Dean rounded to the passenger side and got in, feeling his muscles relax when Sam twisted the key in the transmission and got his baby purring. There was nowhere Dean felt safer than in the Impala with Sam, though he preferred to be driver. At least, that was how it had been before he had died.

He sent Sam a look as they pulled out of the parking lot, trying to read what was behind his brother's exterior. With a sharp twist in his chest, he realized he couldn't.

x.x.x.x.x

"So."

Sam half turned his head away from the road, tilting it a bit to let Dean know he was listening.

"So," Dean said again, "what'd the doctor say about you? Any issues?"

"Nah. Clean bill of health."

"Huh. No _complications_ or anything?"

"No."

"Right, yeah. So, there's no reason you'd have to go back or anything. Because you had a checkup to make sure, right?"

Sam's brows scrunched up in confusion as he turned to take a hard look at Dean. "You okay? Is something hurting? You need to go back?" he asked, worried.

"Nope, not me. Just making sure you're all squared away and crap."

Scowling, Sam let the car slow a few miles per hour as they hit light traffic. "Dude, why are you pissed at me? Did I do something?"

"Not pissed, just tired."

Sam continued to watch him, his eyes searching for any signs of injury that needed immediate attention.

Attention that Sam should have gotten back at the hospital.

"You didn't let them look you over," Dean blurted.

"What are you talking ab—"

"The nurse said you refused medical treatment, Sam. Why the hell would you do that? You got tossed around by Cozbi's host almost as much as I did. Don't tell me you didn't; I was there, remember."

"You mean that thing with the nurse?"

"Yeah, Sam, 'that thing with the nurse.' She seemed upset that you wouldn't let them take a look at you. Something about trauma and exams and complications – didn't get the whole thing."

Sam hitched one shoulder, his eyes staying on the road. "She just wanted an excuse to give us more bills. I'm fine, Dean, I swear. You think I'd walk out of there if something was seriously wrong?"

Dean clenched his jaw, catching a sharp comment between his teeth before it had a chance to do any damage. "You should have mentioned something. What if there's a problem?"

"I'm sorry, okay? I didn't think it was important."

_You didn't think it was important for me to know whether or not you're healthy? Damn it, Sam. How the hell am I supposed to keep you safe if you keep lying down in traffic?_

"At the very least you should've let them look at you just to avoid drawing attention to us. The Gelbowitz insurance isn't our best."

Sam looked away. Dean watched him, kicked into sleuth mode when he saw Sam's expression; the kid was trying to keep something from him. Then, his sudden understanding as sharp as the click of heels against a wooden floor, Dean knew what it was. He wanted to call Sam on it, wanted to yell at him for it, but he didn't.

The reasoning behind Sam's refusal for treatment may have been so that he could stay with Dean, but that wasn't all. Dean twisted the silver ring on his finger hard, frustrated with himself and his brother. He was bothered that he hadn't seen it sooner: Sam hadn't wanted anyone taking care of him because he felt he didn't deserve it. To Sam's way of thinking, the nurse was another future victim of his brother's mistakes, like everyone else in the hospital. The trouble was, Dean could see where Sam was coming from, and he hated that.

Once upon a time, he never would have let his brother think about himself like that; once upon a time, his brother's thoughts about himself would have been wrong.

"One good thing came out of us getting the crap kicked out of us," Sam said, raising his eyebrows in amusement.

For a moment Dean felt whiplashed from the change of topic. He shook it off, thinking that he should be used to it by then. "Huh. What's that?" His tone was about as interested as he felt: not at all.

Of course, that deterred Sam not one bit. He perked up a bit when he shared new information he had learned; unlike a lot of other things, that wasn't something that had changed about Dean's brother.

"We know now what Cozbi's spirit is attached to, which makes the salting and burning part a lot easier and less destructive than torching the house." Thank all things holy that it wasn't the actual _house_ Cozbi had latched onto.

Dean turned to face him, surprised. "When did you figure this out?" Geez, when he had time to _think_ about it?

Sam didn't answer his question, skipping instead to the part about what he had learned. "The guy who was possessed turns out to be the same guy who robbed the Cozbi place earlier tonight. He took a watch that belonged to Mr. Cozbi, and that was the only thing the thief had on him when he came after us, so it shouldn't have been something else.

"Also, the watch was stolen by the son-in-law the night before he shot Cozbi, which explains how the spirit was able to get to him and kill him so quickly. Mrs. Cozbi put it back in the house when James died in his cell."

"Why a watch?"

Sam shrugged. "It's been in his family for generations, and he said it was his most important material possession. Or at least, that's what Mrs. Cozbi said."

"Oh. You called her?"

Giving Dean a look that said _yeah right_, Sam shook his head. "She called the hospital and wanted to know how you were doing. She apologized for what happened; I guess she felt responsible, since the guy had only been around there to rob her house."

Sam had done his research, it seemed; Sam always did his research. "So, we're looking for a watch in the piles of crap rich people accumulated over a lifetime. Not too bad."

"Let's hope." Sam rested his attention on the road, watching as it was eaten up by the Impala. Hope: sometimes he felt like it was all he had, but it could only hold him afloat for so long.

x.x.x.x.x

They didn't go to the house that night, not after turning on the local news and reading a warning to be on the lookout for two men who were possibly going around impersonating law enforcement officers of some sort. It seemed Mr. Moreno hadn't been taken completely seriously, as the report was shaky at best. Nevertheless, jail breaks weren't something either of them wanted to do on their "easy hunt."

It was dark, late; probably around one in the morning. Dean had gone out to hustle pool, concerned about their depleted funds; making money hadn't been high on their to-do list of late. Sam, after trying in vain to get Dean not to go, had barely managed to get him to go alone, begging off on the grounds that he was going to do more research on the job. Dean had acquiesced, but only after saying he would check in every hour or so, and Sam had better answer his phone.

Sam couldn't help but feel that maybe if he wasn't around, nothing bad would follow Dean. It wasn't an altogether unreasonable hope, just one that was a little squishy around the edges. But he let him go, knowing that one day he would have to do it permanently.

He had been researching for the better part of two hours, having spent a few minutes of the time on the phone with Dean, who was apparently doing well with his night job. Now Sam sat still in his seat, facing the door, struggling to make a decision. He could try it, but if Dean came back too early… it was risky. Dean was having a lot of luck, which meant the trip would be shorter; people only allowed themselves to be hustled so long before it was smart for the hustler to take off.

But… it was an opportunity, and he didn't know if he would have the chance again while they were there. After what he had dreamed…He had to talk to this person, see what they knew And there was no way Dean would let him go out of town by himself once they got back to Bobby's. Maybe it had to be now. Still, the thought of Dean's anger at coming back to find Sam gone made him hesitate.

No, he couldn't go tonight. It would have to be some other time.

Sam sunk back into the old, sagging cushion of the room's single armchair, his body heavily resting against the worn swirly pattern with pears studding the edges. His head had been buzzing all evening – a swarm of insects in a cage that was too small. Now the feeling was moving down his spine and slowly bleeding into the rest of his body.

He could feel it in the tips of his fingers, like the boil of blood just under the cover of skin and nails. He should tell Dean about it, he knew that, but he couldn't bring himself to face Dean's concern, or perhaps worse, his indifference. _It was nothing_, he told himself. Nothing.

Sam jerked forward, startled by the quick spike of pain in his head. He held still, afraid to aggravate it. After a moment, it faded into the same soft fizz that stroked the rest of his body.

Trembling, Sam stood on legs rickety with nerves. A dew of sweat began to gather at his hairline, and with his heart in his mouth, Sam turned his eyes on a dictionary resting atop the table adjacent from him. Something zinged through his body, making him hyperaware of everything around him, especially that dictionary…

Without any real thought, heart thundering painfully in his chest, he raised his hand and felt for the book with his mind. It stung, but he pushed on. The book rose into the air without a hitch and sailed smoothly into Sam's waiting grasp. Shock zipped like electricity through him; soon, he knew, to be mixed with horror. As soon as his fingers touched the cover, the door of the motel room burst open to reveal a grinning Dean.

Sam jerked back, dropping the volume as if it burned. It hit the floor with a thump and drew Dean's attention.

"Dude, jumpy much?" Dean nodded his head at the fallen book. He shut the door and locked it behind himself.

"Uh, how'd you make out?" Sam deflected quickly.

Dean's grin was back and cockier than ever. "Dude, the people around here are suckers. We came away four hundred dollars richer."

"And in two hours. Impressive."

Then Dean did what Sam didn't want him to do – he looked him over. "You okay?" was the inevitable question.

"Yeah, fine. You up for helping me research some stuff?"

Dean scoffed at him. "That's geek work."

Arching an eyebrow, Sam simply looked at Dean.

"Yeah, yeah, okay," Dean said after a moment, "Don't nag."

"Didn't say anything."

"Didn't have to."

Sam offered him a shaky smile, quickly dropping it when Dean's reaction was to frown concernedly at him. "So, let's get going," Sam said quickly.

"Are you sure you're okay?"

"I'm fine. My eyes are burning and I think I'm allergic to dust now, but I'm fine. Seriously, I can't tell when the last time was this room was cleaned."

"Dude, gross." Dean crossed the room and dropped onto his bed, letting himself tip back to lie on his back.

Sam pulled a stack of papers off the small table and tossed them toward Dean, who caught them almost without looking. He grunted at the weight of them.

"Geez, weighs a ton. How did you get all this?"

Sam didn't miss the slight suspicion in the tone that subtly asked, "Did you leave the motel room?" Sitting down at his laptop, Sam replied over his shoulder, "I printed it out in the motel lobby. Their printer is ancient. Took me like forty minutes, but I think there might be something useful in there."

"Yeah, fire fuel," Dean grumbled, looking a little less uptight as he lifted the first stapled stack of paper.

Both of them out of things to say, they got to work.

x.x.x.x.x

The motel room laid silent in the darkest part of the night, only the soft snuffle of the working air vent disturbing the stillness. Crystal light from the moon slipped between the cracks in the curtains, lying warm and soft over the slowly breathing body closest to the door. It caressed his cheeks and traced his throat, as if trying to soften the blow the man would receive when he woke.

_Sunlight falls warm and thick over his head and arms, making his black AC/DC shirt seem more like cling wrap than a piece of cloth. Everything is yellow. Everything glows with summer and heat. He's in California, in that field near that little haunted town; he knows it like he knows he has ten fingers on the edges of his palms. It's the place Sam almost died for the first time ever._

_The air waves surreally around him, and he can see something coming through it, coming toward him. It's moving through the honey-colored field, the tall grass bending and swirling, but there's no breeze. Sam smiles at him when he comes closer, the grin almost blinding Dean in its intensity. He feels the biting pressure of a headache from it. _

_Sam is younger, maybe twenty, dressed in dark jeans with a white t-shirt and smiling like he'll never quit. His hair, as always, is too long; it hangs in wisps over his brows, and one piece touches the bridge of his nose where there's the faintest smattering of freckles from being in the sun._

_"Getting kinda slow, big brother." Sam says it with a joy he hasn't had in years, the laughter in the challenge making his words light enough to float away._

_Dean snorts and folds his arms over his chest, dropping them when the heat gets worse. "Says Mr. Giraffe Legs with the strength of a parakeet."_

_Sam lopes closer and Dean can see he's not sweating at all, not like Dean. When Sam's in front of him, Dean knows the heat isn't coming from the sun; the heat is coming from Sam. _

_The smile widens. "I fixed it, Dean, I can do it; I can disappear, now." As if to prove it to his big brother, Sam vanishes and reappears before Dean can take a breath._

_Dean frowns, not liking that. He had tried to keep Sam from learning to do that. "If you disappear, Dad will get mad." He says it because he hopes it will scare Sam into staying._

_Shaking his head, Sam dances away again, still bleeding happiness. "No, he won't. He can't catch me, Dean."_

_If Dad can't catch Sam, Dean is afraid he can't either. But no, Dean has always been the one who knows where Sam is; he has always been the one who knows Sam. Better than anyone alive, he knows his brother. _

_Dean blinks and Sam's already halfway across the plain, running fast and free, and suddenly Dean knows that Sam is the non-wind, too. Just like he knows that if Sam keeps running, he will run after him as fast and hard and far as he has to in order to catch him. There wasn't anywhere Sam could run that Dean wouldn't follow. _

_But with another flicker of his eyelids Sam is back with him, chest rising and falling a little faster than before. _

_ "Run with me, Dean." Sam has Dean's hand encased in the kid's larger, warmer hands and is pulling him forward. _

_Dean is distressed when he realizes he can't do it, can't keep up. He feels slow, heavy next to Sam, who is so light that he might be carried away if a real wind even sighed at him. That scares him because he's afraid he won't be able to pull him back down._

_"I can't, Sammy." _

_Sam's smile turns playfully sly. "Afraid I'll outrun you, big brother?"_

_Regarding his brother with a front of scorn, Dean scoffs. "No way."_

_"I'm faster now, Dean. I can disappear," he says again, elated. Sam has nothing holding him down; Dean feels like he's stitched tight to the ground._

_"Stay, Sammy." Dean tries not to plead, but he doesn't think he succeeds._

_Sam looked at him, still smiling, but a small sadness visible behind his eyes, saying, "You can't keep me with you forever, you know."_

_Dean wishes he would stop saying that. He tilts his chin up confidently. "You may be fast, but I can find you wherever you go."_

_Sam laughs; it sounds like heat from the sun. "Then come and catch me, why don't you?"_

_Bolting faster than lightning, Sam fades into the plain. Quicker than the crack of a whip, he's back and right next to Dean like he had never left, smelling like cornflower-blue skies and sleeping outside, and he's lighter than air._

_Sam's shoulder lines with Dean's, pushing feather light against him, and Dean can hear the laugh pushing at his brother's lips. "Come catch me." And then Dean is alone again._

Dean woke with a sharp intake of breath, his muscles bunched in preparation to take off after his brother. His neck and shoulders are stiff from remaining unmoved while he slept, and his eyes are dry and cracked, red vessels painted onto their surfaces. He turns to Sam's bed, needing to check to make sure his little brother hadn't vanished on him.

He squinted, trying to see though the moonlight hiding the room from his sight. Cocking his head to the side, his dark-adjusted pupils focused on the bed next to his. For a moment he thought he was still dreaming, and after a second more he realized he was not. A horrible, gut-churning fear twisting hard inside of him, but there was no surprise.

Sam was gone.

x.x.x.x.x

Sam made sure to stay in the shadows of the streetlamps, keeping his strides long and smooth to avoid attracting attention from anyone who might still be up at the ungodly hour he decided to take a walk. He dropped his head as he went. It wasn't just a walk; the moment his brother had gone to sleep, he had changed his mind.

He had to make the visit now, before things got so bad that there were no solutions to be found. Sam wasn't naïve enough to think that such a thing could never happen. He had questions that needed answering before he pulled something else horrible on the unsuspecting world. Before he could hurt his brother worse. How could he expect to fix things with Dean when neither of them knew what Sam might do because of…because of whatever he was?

The address was just as the computer had given it to him. The house, however, was a bit more of a surprise. It had no flowers like the others, only dark statues of child-sized birds statically flapping their wings as they prepared to take off. They littered the dark lawn; jutting black guardians of the home.

The door was painted some light color that Sam couldn't decipher in the dark. He weaved through the figures leering at him from their perches on the wet grass, sharp beaks reaching for him as if they longed to sample his flesh. It wouldn't be the first time some creature had thought him tasty. The way the light caught their glassy eyes, they seemed almost real. A cold shiver trickled wetly down his back.

Finally he reached the house, taking the two patio stairs in a single long step. Raising a hand toward the door, Sam rapped twice with his knuckles, feeling the thrumming vibration through his fingers and wrist. For several seconds he stood still in the busy darkness of the night, the sounds of insects echoing loudly in the relative silence. He moved to knock again.

The door swung open quickly, its hinges making not a sound as they moved the door back to reveal the sharp features of a young man. His left hand scrabbled for something Sam couldn't see, and the next second a light went on behind him, stabbing pikes of discomfort through Sam's maladjusted eyes.

"Is that you, then?" the man asked, his eyebrows twitching toward the sky as he stared up at Sam. "I really did think you'd be shorter. You know, attract less attention. But then I guess you can be pretty invisible when you want to be."

"… Do I know you?" Sam leaned in to get a better look at the guy.

The man was maybe just on this side of six feet, with short-cropped black hair and gray eyes that seemed almost reflective in the dark. He was wearing a gray and navy plaid pajama top that matched his bottoms exactly. There were no slippers or socks covering his long, bony feet as his toes tapped absently against the shoe mat inside the door.

"Can anyone ever really know anyone? Thought-provoking question, I guess, but not one I'm interested in answering." He looked Sam up and down once more, ignoring the younger man's confusion, frowning at something he saw. "Come in before the neighbors wake and think I'm being robbed. You probably don't want us to be interrupted. We don't have a lot of time, but…" He shrugged and moved aside for Sam to enter.

Feeling slightly dazed, Sam walked inside, keeping a wary eye on his surroundings and his host. He did glance at the stylish décor of the front hall, noting a spiraling staircase that wound toward the upper floor. "Nice place."

"Isn't it? My wife decorated it. She built the staircase, too. I'm no good with any of that, so I just lend moral support. That's the way she likes it, though." As though realizing the topic didn't interest his guest, the man folded his arms across his chest and focused on Sam. "You want to sit down for this? We could stand if that makes you feel better."

In fact, Sam had been thinking that exact thing. Unnerved as he was, he didn't want the guy to get the idea that he could just root around in Sam's head. So he tried to close his mind, nodding. "Seats are good."

"Fine, then. This way." The man led him to a well-furnished parlor, taking the loveseat across from the creamy, soft armchair Sam selected.

"Uh, look, I think maybe I…"

"No, no, this is right. So, you have questions, I take it? Fire away." The man leaned back on his couch, relaxing as if the conversation was going to take some time; as if the topic was the weather or what neighbor had gotten a too-expensive car.

Sam took the man's lead in appearance, relaxing back into the seat, but internally remaining as tightly coiled as a spring. "You're the psychic? Ashley Barett?"

"Ashley can be a masculine name," the man insisted, apparently mistaking Sam's tone. At the quirk of Sam's mouth, he relented with a small smile. "Well, it can be a male name, at least. Could've been worse, like Apple or Prince. Can't help what your parents are smoking when they decide things like that, eh?"

"Guess not." Sam glanced again toward the staircase, feeling uneasy.

"They're not here. My wife and girls are visiting her mother for a couple days, at my insistence. They left early this morning, and I doubt they'll be back until tomorrow night. I can't stand the old woman, but Maureen loves her mother."

"Maureen?" Sam's gaze snapped back to Ashley. "Maureen Waters?"

Frowning, he nodded. "That's her. The last name threw you off, I imagine; she kept her maiden name. You know her, then?"

"My brother got…mugged. She was around. At the block party."

Dark brows shot up, arching elegantly over surprised eyes. "Really?" His voice softened with curious comprehension, eyes flickering over the cut on Sam's forehead. "I didn't know that was you."

"Shouldn't you have?"

"Because I'm a psychic? Not really. I'm not God, after all." He chuckled as though at some private joke, crossing one leg over the other as he settled further into his seat.

"But from what I've heard of you, you're extremely talented," Sam pressed hopefully.

"Thank you." He began to tap his foot in the air; up down, up down, up down. "Talent. People think of it fondly, greedily, but it's not always something they like once they're face to face with it. I have to warn you that what you find out today may not be what you want to know."

"Not a huge surprise, in my life." Sam gave a wry grin.

"I suppose not. Are you ready to begin?"

"Sure."

"Go ahead. Ask anything you like."

Sam's pulse sped up, plunging quickly into his stomach. He let himself look over the room, taking in the wood floors and the red and white and cream swirled carpet that rested underneath the coffee table that separated Sam from Ashley.

"Do people ever call you Ash?" he asked insanely.

"Not generally, no. There was one person, but he's long dead now, so no: no one does."

"Oh. Sorry." Sam tilted his head toward the clock on the mantle above the empty fireplace, watching as the ornate second hand circled smoothly around the face. Gold filigree iced the edged of the clock, making it shine in the dim light.

"Not at all. But I don't think you came here to ask my about childhood nicknames, did you, Sammy?" He said the name with amusement, but a look in his eye let Sam know he wouldn't be using it again. It was all for show.

"No, I guess not."

They sat in an uncomfortable silence, Sam with his hands tucked awkwardly on his lap, the back of the chair too short and making him lean forward so he didn't tip the whole thing over. Ashley looked over him carefully, appearing a bit confounded.

"I have to admit, I thought you'd be a lot different, Sam."

"Really? Like how?"

"Well, after what happened in Maryland, I considered having a gun on me for when you came. But then I figured if I actually needed it, it wouldn't do me much good, would it?"

Sam sat still, slightly stung.

Ashley gave a sorrowful sort of smile, moving one hand to tug the collar of his sleep shirt straight. "Everyone is a monster in some way, Sam. You're one step ahead of most people; you know what's inside you."

"I don't, actually. That's why I'm here."

"What's why you're here?"

"I need to know what I am, what I – what I did to myself. What I still might do."

"Ah, I see. I didn't realize." He leaned to the right, lifting a box off of the table. "You smoke?" He held out the box, opening it to reveal expensive looking cigarettes.

"Uh…no. No thanks." Sam eyed the box.

"Neither to do I, but a lot of my clients do, so I keep them around." He shut the box and dropped it carelessly to the floor. "Well, Sam, there hasn't actually been anything quite like you before. Don't let it go to your head, though; quite a few people are unlike any others."

"Yeah? How many people are as different as I am?" It was said with a bitter edge.

Ashley nodded his head in acknowledgement of Sam's point. "Not many. I'm afraid _I_ don't even know just how many things about you are unique."

Sam leaned forward, eyes not moving from the silver ones across from him. "Tell me what you know."

"All of it? That would take more time than we have and probably not as much time as it should. But I'll work that out later on my own. You want me to tell you that you're still human, still a person, and that what you decided to do to yourself didn't have any lasting consequences."

"Might be nice." Sam's attempt at a light tone fell flat, thrown off balance from the lame legs he gave it.

"Well, it's not true. You know that. What you did to yourself… I've never heard of anything like it. Not to that degree. And whether or not the change is bad remains to be seen." Ashley bent in his seat, reaching down to retrieve the box of cigarettes.

He pulled out a cigarette and a lighter, putting the thin roll to his lips. He flicked the lighter twice, flame erupting on the last try. It illuminated his cheekbones, making him look far older than he had first appeared. Cigarette alight, he threw the lighter back in the box and tossed the box on the coffee table where it landed with a loud bang.

"I thought you didn't smoke."

"I've decided to start. I hear it helps calm the nerves. I get cranky when I'm nervous, so I'm hoping that doing something with my hands will help. Wouldn't want you to lose that head of yours, would we?" He grinned, white teeth sitting perfect and straight in his mouth.

Ignoring the last comment, Sam got back on target. "What about this can be even remotely good?" His nerves were still on edge. He spread his hands out as if to indicate himself.

"Well, for one thing, you have a better shot at protecting your brother."

Adrenaline threaded quickly and softly through Sam's body, winding around his veins. "Dean? Why, what's wrong with him?"

"Don't panic, I didn't mean now." Ashley waved at him to stay seated when Sam shifted to rise. "And I don't know exactly when, so don't ask. I'm just saying that with all that's happened and who your brother is supposed to be, the demons aren't going to want him alive for long." He took a deep drag from the cigarette, letting the smoke out through his nose.

"Welcome to our world." Sam gave a grimace. "Do you know what happened to me or not?"

After another breath through the cigarette, Ashley gave him another smile, smoke drifting lazily through the small slits between his teeth. "You made yourself a monster, of course."

Sam turned cold and stiff as stone. "A…a mon—"

"You're not stark raving crazy foaming at the mouth, but you're a monster. Like I said, though, everyone's got a monster inside them. Yours just has a bigger bite than most. Trust me, if you were one of the true evils of this world, things would be much different."

"I – I didn't…"

"If it makes you feel better, even your brother has his own… demons inside of him. His are just the same as most other people, so no one pays them much attention. Yours are special. Bloodthirsty, vicious and nearly literal, but special."

Sam breathed slowly, trying to understand, trying not to let himself just drop into black despair. "What the hell does all that mean?"

"It means you can ignore it or learn to use it. Both of them will probably have some pretty nasty consequences; it's just a matter of preference."

"Preference for what?" Sam growled, getting irritated. "How am I supposed to know?"

Ashley looked slightly caught off guard, as though he had thought Sam would already know the answer to that question. "You haven't started again? I could've sworn…"

"Started _what_?"

Ashley looked unsure of himself for the first time that night, his features turned down as he silently contemplated. "I would have thought you'd have started having visions again. Odd that you haven't."

Impatient, Sam waved a hand at that suggestion. "I haven't had visions for years."

"Since that yellow-eyed demon was shot, I know. That may have thrown them for a loop, but they're certainly not gone. In fact, if anything they should get stronger now that you're off the blood."

Sighing in frustration, Sam ran a hand roughly though his hair, fingers snagging briefly on a small knot of blood and who knew what else. "I want to know if I should continue what I started last year. No… help, just me. I need to know what that'll do to my brother."

"You want a peek into the future, then?"

Sam was silent, his expression firm.

"That's a yes, then. Alright, hold on." Ashley let his eyes slide almost all the way closed, only slits of white visible beneath his dark lashes. Rapid movement from side to side could be seen beneath the covering of skin over his eyes. His body twitched lightly from time to time, fingers gripping tight onto his legs and then releasing, only to start again in a few seconds.

It went on like that for five minutes, until finally the gray gaze was once again on Sam; alert, if perhaps a bit wearier. "If you…if you decide to continue with your gifts, you'll pay the price. If you don't, you still die, but sooner. Maybe you'll go to a better place, maybe not."

Sam brushed all that aside, intent on one thing. "Dean?"

"I don't know. I didn't see him in the future without your gifts, but he was there in the one in which you decided to use them. There will be demons, angels, and other hunters after you and your brother. Most of them will want you dead for one reason or another. Mostly because of how important you are to keeping your brother alive. That's all I saw."

"That's it? Nothing else?" Sam pressed.

"That's as good a view as I get. You, however, should be able to get a much clearer, more detailed picture."

"I said I don't—"

"Get visions anymore, yeah, I heard you. That should change very soon, if it hasn't already."

Sam rose from his chair then, looming huge and tall over the slightly-framed Ashley Barnett. "If you knew all this, why the hell haven't you done something?"

"About what? No, I'm not one to save the world, Sam. I find that the more people try to fix things, the more screwed to hell everything gets."

When Sam gave him nothing more than a fierce stare, Ashley sighed and scrubbed a square hand over his face, as though he was developing a headache. "Please sit back down. You're very tall and my neck still aches from watching for you out the window. You're pretty stealthy, by the way. Surprising."

Slowly, Sam sank back onto the fluffy white seat cushion, letting his arms hang off the end of the too-short chair. He said nothing, simply watched as Ashley rubbed at his neck.

"We both know why you're really here."

"I want to know what I am," Sam repeated without patience.

"No, you want to know what you have to protect your brother from. You don't care if you go to Hell, so long as Dean never finds out and doesn't follow you. You don't want that kind of guilt for him; you know what it does to a person."

Sam said nothing.

"You want him to stop taking bullets for you. You want to be able to take bullets for him. It's all very noble and self-sacrificial of you boys, but honestly I can't think of anything worse for you to be doing."

"You wouldn't do the same for your wife and daughters?" Sam demanded.

"If they died or were going to start the end of the world? No, probably not. Doesn't mean I'd be able to live without them. I wouldn't. Won't." He watched Sam, sympathy barely evident behind his sharp features. Abruptly, he said, "I'm sorry you had to live without your brother. He left and took your escape with him. Can't very well kill yourself and waste the life he gave up for you, can you?"

"This was a mistake." Sam moved to rise from his chair again, only to stop when Ashley surged off his couch, appearing much taller in the gloom of the sitting room.

"You know Dean is important, don't you? He broke the first seal, so he's got to close all this business out, if anyone can. You know it's going to come down to him choosing himself and the world… or you." His eyes gleamed sharply. "Do you want to know how to get him to choose himself?"

Sam opened his mouth, closed it. _No_, he wanted to say. "Yes."

Ashley seemed to shrink back down to normal size, dropping back into his seat. "Not a whole lot. Honestly, one of the reasons he's so frantic about keeping you safe is because losing you would kill him. In his mind, it's you or neither of you."

"Not so sure he feels like that anymore." Sam gave a short sound that was meant as laughter, deformed and cracked.

"You'd be surprised, I think. But you're right; your brother is changing. He's going to have to man up, grow up and accept what he's gotten himself into." Ashley crossed his legs once again, foot bobbing in time to the clock's second hand click. "You've been in this mess before you were born."

"Just…" Sam clenched his jaw, feeling the muscles bounce with the rhythm of the anxiety pounding in his head. "What am I supposed to do?"

Ashley shook his head. "Don't worry about that. Everything will happen just as it's supposed to. I know it doesn't feel like that, but it always happens." He reached a hand out to the side table, tapping his still-burning cigarette against the glass to dislodge the ash. Frowning at it, he mashed it down farther, putting it out and leaving it; a crooked white stem growing out of ash and glass.

Letting his fingers gently grip the sides of his chair, Sam cleared his throat. He needed advice, he needed help, and he hoped to God that revealing some of his secrets wouldn't get him or Dean killed. But if he didn't do it, that was likely to happen anyway. This way, he would _know_. Then it was fight or flight. "I, uh – I think I may have had a vision. Last night."

Light sparked through Ashley's eyes, making them once again seem almost like mirrors. "Ah, it _has_ started." He didn't move to ask what Sam had seen. "They should start progressing quickly. Keep something extra strength on you. For the headaches, I mean."

Sam watched him silently, mouth pressed closed. His eyes hardened, closed off behind shields of hazel and blue. Finally, he spoke. "Why do you care?"

"Pardon?"

"I've known psychics, powerful ones, and none of them have known anything about this. Give me a reason to believe you're not working for someone on the wrong side." His tone was final and unquestioning: _Don't lie – I'll kill you._

With a chuckle, Ashley silently clapped his hands together three times, applauding. "Sharp, Sam. Very sharp. No, I didn't figure all of this out on my own. If you must know, I was bullied into doing this."

"By who?" Sam wanted a straight, quick answer, and Ashley knew that.

"Angels. I've seen them from time to time. Sometimes they need my help, and sometimes it's worth my while to help them. This wasn't mandatory, but they made it clear that if I didn't help that things would happen that I couldn't stop. They said my family was in danger and that doing this for them would help keep them safe. They were scary polite about it, but I think you can understand why I agreed. Bastards, all of them, but they can see danger when others remain blind to it."

Sam rose slowly to his feet, followed by Ashley. "What do you want?" Demons never did anything without wanting something, even if it was just death and pain; in the case of angels, it didn't seem to be much different. More complicated maybe, but not that different.

"They want you to know about your powers. They gave me a sketchy outline of how the whole thing works, but I'm not sure it'll help much."

Sam began to grow tired of the psychic's tangents. "What whole thing?"

"The why behind your past. Before you ask, I can't tell you. You can kill me, but I'm not letting my family go just to save my life. I'm just supposed to get you going down this path."

That caught Sam's attention. "What do you mean? What was the name of the angel who told you all this? Zachariah?"

"No, not him. He's one I'm supposed to watch out for, if you must know. I can't give you names, but I'd be expecting a visit soon. I _am_ supposed to tell you to have faith and to be patient."

Sam gave a short laugh. "Yeah, sure. No problem."

Ashley sighed and shifted his weight to his other foot. "Look, I don't know who these guys are _exactly_, and I don't know what they want. But I know what I saw in my vision. Seeing the future is almost impossible for even the most powerful psychic. _You_ shouldn't have as much of a problem."

"So that's it? Suddenly I'm supposed to build up whatever this demon blood does to me? Tell me who you talked to."

"I told you, I can't say who – it's all very hush-hush right now; never know whose side anyone is on."

"And what about your side? Which one is that?" Sam began to inch his hand toward the .45 in the back of his jeans waistband.

"I don't have one, not really. I'll do favors when asked of me, so long as I get something out of it. In this case, it's my family safe. But enough about me, this is all about you. Well, and your brother. Let me tell you Sam, from what I've seen you'll be a more powerful psychic than I've ever come across. You'll see that soon enough."

"I don't want this," Sam growled, clenching the fist that wasn't on his weapon, "Any of it."

"Not even if it could save your brother?"

Sam's hand stilled, fingers barely brushing the warm metal of the handgun.

"Don't get me wrong, with the stuff you'll have to see and do, there's no end to the psychological torture you've got to look forward to, but that might be the only thing standing between Dean and death. Some stuff after death, too, but that's not so important just yet."

"How the hell is this…this _curse_ supposed to save Dean? What does it even have to do with him?" Sam gave up on subtlety, drawing the gun and wrapping both hands around it. He kept it angled toward the floor, his arms relaxed but ready to snap up if the time came. He didn't trust anyone working with angels or demons, not now.

"Dean, yes… This is his story now, kid. Everyone figured you'd be the protagonist in this little production, but the higher ups have decided otherwise, apparently. I don't know how it all ends, but it's a very heroic tale for him, I'll bet. You… your role is a little more complex. What are you? Villain, brother, betrayer, sacrifice? All of the above? I'm willing to bet that no matter which of those roles you play for your brother, you two will end up saving the world.

"But then, I've been very wrong before." Ashley took a step forward, following Sam's step back. "However it goes, that's the way it's supposed to be, Sam."

"Right, destiny," he said sardonically. "If there's no changing anything, why tell me any of this?"

"Because it's all part of it; and because I told you I have reasons to have had this little chat with you. I'm glad I did; as far as people go, you're an interesting one." Ashley looked him up and down, surprising Sam when a curse fell from his lips. "They knew I'd get interested if I talked to you. Now it'll be favors at all hours of the day, and like an idiot I'll agree. This is one of the most interesting shows the world has had in quite some time."

"Glad I could amuse you. Don't bother showing me out, I know the way." Sam kept his gun trained in Ashley's direction as he slipped past him, backing toward the door.

"No more questions? Can't trust me, I suppose. I'm not lying to you, Sam. But you'll see for yourself soon enough." When Sam didn't answer him, Ashley sighed. "Just watch yourself. You're the grain of rice that could tip this scale either way, kid. Toward your brother or away, I don't know. I'm not even sure what side the guy's really on."

Sam paused, a thought crossing his mind. He locked his gaze on Ashley, halting his retreat. "You stay away from my brother, understand?"

"I'm not who you should be worrying about. And Sam?"

Caught off guard by the sudden look of sympathy and regret on Ashley's face, Sam let him get in a last word.

"He knows you can take care of yourself. He doesn't like it, he doesn't _want _to believe it, but he knows. You've had to, doing what you do. There's no way around it. He may not like your decisions, but that's usually because you're perfectly fine losing yourself while trying to save others. Another stupidly heroic thing about your family. Note the emphasis on stupid." He sighed as though having arrived at a regrettably inevitable conclusion. "And if you ever want to have another chat, come on back and talk."

Sam's lips curled into a sneer. "No thanks." Without another word, Sam moved behind the staircase and out of Ashley's sight.

"Just look out for yourself."

Frowning when he received no answer, Ashley moved to follow him, surprised when he rounded the spiral steps to see the front door open and Sam Winchester nowhere to be found. He grinned. "He's going to be quite something, isn't he?" There was no answer, only the press of dark against the open doorway.

Peering out into the gloom, he wondered what Sam Winchester had thought of them when he arrived. Stepping out onto the empty lawn, Ashley closed his eyes and prepared to finish his end of the bargain. Well, not bargain – most angels didn't do a fair exchange; usually someone got ripped off.

Nevertheless, there were things that needed doing, and he would do them.

x.x.x.x.x

The motel room was still dark when Sam finally returned. It had taken longer than he had expected, but where angels were involved, he trusted nothing. So Sam had worked a maneuver to lose any tails, intent on not leading anything back to Dean.

Anything less than a tracking spell would have been lost by his maneuvers, and Sam carried wards to protect against just such spells. Both he and Dean did, in the lining of their jackets. It was a precaution that Castiel had recommended they take, saying that there would be a lot to hide from now.

The night was dark enough that even he had had trouble telling if something was just a shadow or the figure of some creature. Black clouds had rolled across the town of Stockton while he had been talking to Ashley. It made him glad to be back at the motel.

He opened the door silently, his key thankfully not sticking for once. He jumped nearly a foot when a low, gravelly and infinitely familiar voice demanded, "You want to tell me where you've been?"

"Dean," Sam said, slightly breathless, "You scared the sh—"

"Where, Sam?"

With a hard swallow, Sam closed the door and stepped into the room, blinking in the darkness. He reached out, half blind, and fumbled for the light switch. After a second, he found it and snapped it on. Light flooded the room, revealing Dean sitting in the only armchair with a look darker than the storm brewing outside. Silently, Sam shucked his jacket and laid it on a dining chair.

"When'd you get up?" Sam asked, trying to keep his voice level. He hated that look of Dean's, the one that bled disappointment. He couldn't ever remember getting it before last year. Now he wasn't sure if Dean could look at him another way – not that Sam blamed him.

"About half an hour ago. I hope that enough time for you to finish whatever it was you left for."

Fighting back a wince at the acid tone, Sam took a few steps forward and halted in the middle of the room. "I can explain this." That time he couldn't hold back to flinch at his words; even to his own ears it sounded like the prelude to a lie.

Dean leaned forward in his chair, eyes carefully blank. "I'm not sure it matters anymore, Sam. If you're going to spout crap at every turn, I'd rather not waste my time." Planting a hand on each knee, Dean rose to his feet but stayed where he was. "But let's hear it anyway; maybe I can figure out where you really went, you know, under all the trash."

Trying not to feel the way his heart folded in on itself with the force of that hit, Sam clenched his fists and stood his ground. "I'll tell you about it, and I'm not going to lie. Look at me, Dean – I'm not going to lie to you."

Muscles bounced quick and sharp in Dean's jaw, betraying his remorse. "I wish to God I could believe that, Sam."

"Then believe me." Sam said it almost eagerly, hopefully.

Dean shook his head, eyes falling closed for a moment. "I'm not even sure _you_ know if you're lying, anymore. How the hell am I supposed to tell the difference?"

It hit him, then, hard and unforgiving as a bullet to the chest; Dean thought he was _out_ _getting a hit_. It shouldn't have had such an effect on him, but it did. Sam's jaw went slack and he could practically see the way his eyes went wide, horrified. Dean thought he was drinking blood again. Dean thought he was lying and sneaking out to drain an innocent possession victim of their blood.

"Oh God, Dean… No; I swear to you, _no_."

Whether it was something in Sam's face, his stance or what he said, Dean seemed to soften an iota. "Than what, Sam? What could you possibly be doing out there in the middle of the night?"

Sam stood still for a moment. _You said you'd tell him everything once it was over; you said you'd give him the whole truth_. Anything less and… and Sam was afraid he would never get Dean back. That wasn't something he could live with, not like this. "I went to visit a psychic."

From the look on Dean's face, that explanation sounded ridiculous to him as it did to Sam. "A psychic?" he repeated, dubiousness painfully evident in both words.

"Yes, a psychic. His name is Ashley Barett. I found out about him back at Bobby's when I was doing research on – on… I was researching how I could… what I could do with what I am." Sam couldn't help the quick drop of his eyes, but barreled on before Dean could speak. "I found something on him by accident, but I couldn't get a name or address."

"You couldn't find his name?" Dean still wasn't on the faith bandwagon when it came to Sam, but he wasn't spitting fire and that was better than Sam had to hope for.

"Yeah. I could find almost anything but his name and specific address, no matter what I did. I figured it was a misdirection charm, so I got as close as I could and figured I'd be able to find him here, since he takes local business. I was right," Sam finished in a rush, as though the faster he went the less time Dean had to disbelieve him.

Dean was silent for a moment. "A misdirection charm?"

"I think so. It was really similar to one I used when, uh – I had one to keep Bobby away, after…"

Dean gave a huff. "Of course you did."

The words, while said under his breath, did no less damage to Sam than if they had been shouted. He thought about jamming his hands in his pockets and hunching his shoulders, trying to appear smaller in some way, but that wasn't who he was anymore. He couldn't be that person who had let Dean die, but neither could he be the man who let the whole world go up in flames. Once again, he had to be someone new. And this time he had to get it right.

"So, I found him. He lives not too far away."

"And what's so important, so _secret_ that you had to lie and sneak around to cover it up?"

A jitter started in Sam's spine and moved to his arms. He pinned them to his sides, knowing that if he showed weakness, he would be torn down. "I thought he could help me figure out what I am."

Humorless chuckles fell from Dean's lips. He let his eyes drop away from Sam, shaking his head like he didn't believe a word he heard. Maybe he didn't. Probably, he didn't. Not like it was so easy to believe anything Sam said, he knew.

"You really want me to believe that's what this is all about? _That's_ what you had to work so hard to hide from me? You're going to have to do better than that, Sam."

"I went to see what he could tell me about – about what I've become. Not much it turns out. But that's… It's the truth."

"Right. Same old broken record, then."

That did make Sam's shoulders hunch, if only for a second. He felt slightly winded, like he had caught a punch to the sternum and hadn't been ready for it. He should have been ready for it; he deserved it. But that didn't seem to lessen the blow.

Once upon a time, Dean would have ripped Sam a new one for even suggesting he was anything but human; back then, if Sam wanted to beat himself up, he had always known he would have to go through Dean first. It wasn't like that now. Sam didn't mind... much. He understood, anyway; Dean finally saw what he was, and it wasn't an easy thing to take. Sam had tried for so long to hide what he was from Dean, to believe what had Dean believed – that Sam wasn't the freak everyone else said he was.

Sam exhaled an almost laugh that sounded like nearly a groan. "Yeah, same old. Pathetic. But it's the truth." And the truth was that he thought if he could find out what he was, maybe he could explain it to Dean, maybe he could get his brother to… Even thinking it, _to trust him again_, sounded impossible.

"That's what you keep saying," Dean commented.

"It's what I'll keep on saying."

"Yeah, I know." Dean took a step back, as if he didn't want to be too close. "Really, tell me how I'm supposed to believe any of that. I have no reason, _none_, to take your word for it."

"I know that, I know." Sam's fingers curled slightly at the tips, wanting to ball into fists, as though that would give him protection from the words hurled by his brother. "You – you don't have to believe me. Here." Reaching into his pocket, Sam withdrew the torn paper with the name and address on it. "You can go see him, if you want. It's a bit complicated, but he should be able to answer some questions." He set it on the nightstand and backed away. "Just watch out."

His eyes narrowed. "Fine." Dean didn't even look at the paper, his eyes hard and angry as they watched Sam. "Why didn't you just tell me you wanted to talk to this – this _psychic_ about your mojo?"

Sam clenched his jaw and looked away, hands twitching as if they wanted to fold up.

"Sam." Dean waited. "Sammy?"

Sam visibly flinched at the nickname and drew away an inch or so. "I was…I didn't want you to…"

"To what? Come on Sam, don't make me drag it out of you; I've had enough of that crap for one year, thanks." Dean paused a moment. When Sam said nothing, he raised his voice. "Sam, I'm trying to help you here, man. Just tell me the _truth_."

Eyes snapping to Dean's Sam straightened to his full height. "I was afraid you wouldn't care."

Dean faltered. "You…what?"

Jaw shifting, Sam transferred his weight from one foot to the other. "You heard me – I didn't think you'd give a damn, Dean. You shouldn't, and I get that, but this is the _truth_. And I thought – I thought if I could figure it out, maybe I could try to fix it." He ran a frustrated hand through his hair. "I thought maybe I could fix something, anything, so you wouldn't…" Sam broke off and shook his head.

"So I wouldn't what?"

Sam backed up a step, though whether it was for him or Dean, he didn't know. "Why do you even keep me with you, Dean? I mean, why didn't you finish it in Maryland? I just – I don't get it. And I'm tired of waiting for it to be over."

"For what to be over? Finish what? Sam…damn it, what…?"

"Dean, you don't – you don't have to save me. I heard you loud and clear when you said…that you were done with that. That's fine, and I get it, I just don't want you to – I don't want you to – to hate me."

Sam cut himself off, waiting for Dean to say something, _anything_.

When Dean offered nothing else, looking at Sam with a wariness that made his chest throb with agony, Sam retreated further, suddenly unable to breathe. He couldn't stay there, couldn't be next to someone he loved so fiercely and had hurt so deeply. Who hated him. "I – I'm gonna just –" With no further explanation – he didn't think Dean wanted to hear more – Sam turned and fled from the room.

The parking lot was cold, a lot colder than he remembered it being only minutes ago. God, was it really only minutes? He walked briskly away from the room, afraid Dean would haul him back in to have it out, and that was something he absolutely couldn't do without breaking into pieces. Not yet.

Without meaning to, Sam ended up at the Impala. Sometimes, when he and Dean had had reallybad fights – of which there weren't many – one of them would spend a few hours alone in the car, sleeping or just thinking. Now, Sam didn't think he could do it. That had always been temporary, ephemeral; he didn't know he could fix this one. And besides, it was Dean's car – Dean wouldn't want him in it alone.

So he kept walking, past the bar with the rowdy customers that were unusually loud for that hour of the morning, past the grocery store with all the lights out except the front one, past a few rows of houses that had families tucked safely inside. Away from Dean – the direction in which he didn't want to go.

After half an hour of wandering aimlessly, Sam's hand wandered to his pocket with a life of its own, searching for his phone. Why, he didn't know – Dean wouldn't want to hear from him. But when his fingers came back empty, he dully realized he had forgotten his phone in the motel room. And his jacket, he noted with a shiver.

No phone meant he was more open to attack that before, unable to call for backup. But with the way things were, he wasn't sure he would call even give the chance. It was stupid of him, but it was also familiar. He hadn't kept his phone with him much last summer; there had been no one to call. Ruby had called him with information; she didn't perform rescues on a regular basis.

He ignored the chill wind that cropped up, tugging at his sleeves with its teeth. Sam had taken his brother's love and protection for granted almost all his life. He started to get it together after their dad died, and he knew without a doubt what a special thing he had in Dean when his brother's soul was on the line. And it had only been a matter of time before Dean had to realize that he didn't deserve to be saddled with something like Sam.

Sam let out a sigh as he picked his way around potholes, crossing the road. He and Dean had had fights before: huge, blowout, nearly draw blood kinds of fights. But back then, Sam had known that no matter what, somehow they would still be brothers and still be able to trust one another. Now, with every disagreement and argument, Sam could see the inevitable conclusion drawing nearer, as if each fight was a rung in a ladder that led to the end of Sam and Dean.

And they kept climbing those rungs.

Before, Sam had had no strong desire just to _let_ Dean win whenever they argued. Now he felt as if doing anything else would come back to bite him and bite him hard. But still he couldn't. And he wasn't sure why. But he did know one thing Dean refused to accept; something he would probably never believe.

Everything…_everything_ Sam had done from the moment their Dad died had been for Dean, to save the man who had given everything for him. Just – just somewhere along the way he had forgotten how to let go. Sam had been able to let go of the mother he never knew, of Jess, of _Dad_. But Dean was someone else entirely – Sam couldn't let go of his revenge for what had been done to Dean, he couldn't let them get away with it… he couldn't do less for Dean than Dean had done for him.

Sam kept walking.

x.x.x.x.x

Dean had been nearly frozen, stunned at the end of Sam's speech, staring at his brother like he had grown another head. He had had no idea how to tackle all that Sam had said, but he had known where to start – where he _had_ to start. He had opened his mouth, the words _I don't hate you, Sammy_ balanced on his tongue, but there they had stuck.

Now Dean stood rooted to the spot as Sam turned and walked out the door. His brother had left, and Dean did nothing. He just let him go. He shouldn't care. Shouldn't, but did. But if he went after him, what would he say? The only thing he seemed to be able to get out around Sam was something cruel or condescending, and no matter how deserved Sam might have been of that, _Sammy_ didn't deserve it.

If there was still a Sammy. Sometimes Dean thought he saw him under there, and other times he was sure it was just an echo of the kid who had been his brother. The damn siren had had it right: he just wanted his little brother.

Letting out the breath he hadn't known he was holding, Dean dropped back onto his chair, bringing a hand to his face to rub out some of the stress. His eyes fell unbidden onto the piece of paper Sam had left him.

Left. Sam. Weren't those just two of the worst words he could put together.

With a grunt, Dean pushed himself back up and walked over to the night table. He stood still, staring down at the torn piece of note paper with messy blue writing scrawled over it. Sam had been in a hurry. Without thinking about it, Dean reached out and snagged the note, curling it into his palm. _Ashley Barett_, it read, followed by a street address.

Still he didn't know whether he could believe a word Sam had said. He wouldn't put it past the kid to have actually gone to this psychic's house just to have an alibi to give to Dean later. Those lengths weren't out of the question when it came to Sam and his… problem. A problem Dean knew wasn't fully over yet. He wasn't sure if it would ever be over.

He spent an indeterminate number of minutes standing there, contemplating the notion of going to see the psychic. The truth was, he was grasping at anything that seemed like it could give him a foothold onto trusting Sam again, even when he wasn't sure that was ever going to happen. The thought made him absolutely sick.

With a frustrated growl, Dean dug his phone from his pocket and punched Sam's speed dial number. If he was going to be angry with Sam, he wanted Sam around for it. He deserved it, but more than that, Dean didn't want things between them to be in a hellish stasis.

His mood didn't improve any when he heard Sam's cell buzzing from inside the room; inside his _forgotten jacket_, which meant he had gone walking in the cold air in a strange town with no phone.

Feeling unwanted guilt creep up the back of his neck, its fingers edged with little suckers of worry that latched onto his skin, Dean jammed his phone back into his pocket and wracked his brain for places Sam would go. Library, coffee place, a walk, or a very slim chance he went to a bar. Or…or he may have gone back to the psychic's home.

Unsure if it was his not-so-well-buried desperation to find out if his brother told him the truth, Dean decided to hit the fortune teller's joint first, promising himself he would try not to kick Sam's ass when he found him. "No phone, no jacket. Geez, at least he remembered his freaking shoes," Dean grumbled to himself.

Then, with no one to say goodbye to, he walked out the door to follow Sam.

x.x.x.x.x

Rain fell in thick, heavy patches. It would come, drench him, and then be gone for another few minutes before returning to spray him with more chilling liquid. Sam barely noticed.

Every time he tried to do something to fix what was wrong between him and his brother, Sam dug himself a deeper hole. There was only so deep he could go before it was six feet under, and having already returned twice from the dead was probably more than his fair share of freebies. Although, the lightning thing in Washington had been barely five minutes, so maybe that didn't count.

Running a hand roughly over his head, Sam was surprised when it slicked through soaked hair. He looked down to find that he had become nearly soaked to the bone. Water dripped steadily in his face from his bangs, and his clothes couldn't hold much more moisture if he jumped in a pool.

Cursing softly, Sam deliberated. He could go back to the motel room and be verbally beaten into the ground by Dean, or he could try to find somewhere to stay for a while, just until things… calmed down. Until Dean had decided to stash this away as another incident in the ever-growing file labeled "Sam Winchester's Screw-Ups." Maybe it was two files by now.

As he walked, he allowed himself to feel frustration toward a safer target than his brother: Ashley. Who the hell was that guy working for – or freelancing for, if he was to be believed. That might have been a question he was willing to put aside, provided that he had actually _answered_ his questions. Cryptic crap didn't cut it.

But Ashley Barett hadn't seemed to be lying; if he was trying to get Sam to go darkside by using his powers, why tell him that he would die either way? However, there was any number of other possible motivations for whatever-it-was to lie. So, he would discount what he had heard and go back to square one; the square where he was losing Dean and had thrown the world to the wolves of Hell. It wasn't a fun square.

The crack of a twig snapped beneath the weight of a body had Sam whipping around to face two figures bleeding out of the shadows. Rain obscured his vision somewhat, but it didn't keep him from noticing the wide grins across the faces of the two men. One was tall and burly, the other a bit shorter and leaner with a bald head.

Sam's heartbeat slowed a bit, vaguely relieved; maybe they just wanted to mug him.

"Look, a Winchester all on its own. Did your brother finally kick you out? How sad do you think he'll be when he finds slabs of your body all over the road? My money's on not at all."

Not just muggers. Heart flooding his body with blood, Sam felt panic pinch hard at his throat. How had they been able to find him? Or was he just that unlucky? Sam faced them squarely, pulse pounding when he saw their eyes flood with black in the flickering light of the malfunctioning streetlamp. He had his .45 with him, but everything else – holy water, salt, and _wards_ – was back at the motel room.

"Got to tell you, we were surprised when you suddenly popped up on the grid, Sam. Nothing on your or your brother for weeks and now here you are. Getting sloppy." The two moved closer, bodies fluid in a way that wasn't human.

Sam glanced around the street, looking for somewhere with salt or holy water that he could reach. Nothing. Everything was closed and locked and would take more time to break into than Sam was able to give.

"Before we gut you, maybe you'd like to call big brother for help? Let us get both of you in one shot, maybe. Rumor has it that your special gifts are gone, all blown on killing Lilith. That true, Sam?" the demon taunted. A flash of silver appeared at his side.

Sam eyed the blade warily, noting the tapered point at the end of ten inches of knife. "You really think Dean's still with me?" He gave a laugh, convincing despite the circumstances. "After what I've done, that's not an option."

"Finally grow the spine you needed to shut him up, then? Or did he ditch you first chance he got? Went after you, maybe; tried to kill his little freak who opened Lucifer's cage, did he?"

Snarling, Sam pulled out his .45 and leveled it at the demon's bald head, hands steady even as rain soaked his grip.

Laughter clattered through the street, echoing off building fronts. "You're going to shoot us, Sam? Really?"

"It'll make me feel better." Sam sneered, cocking the trigger.

The two drew closing, blue-white light from the single streetlamp glinting off the bald one's scalp. "Maybe you think we should thank you for letting Lucifer free, grovel at your feet a little."

Sam slowly backed away from them, aware of the alley into which they were trying to herd him.

"Think you're so special, do you? Boy King. You can still die like a human."

And then they were on him, one of them ducking behind while the other attacked his front. Sam didn't waste his bullets, instead bringing the butt of the weapon into hard contact with the bald demon's nose a split second before smashing his elbow into the tall demon's throat behind him.

It didn't stall them for long, but it was long enough for Sam to slip from between them and get some distance. When he faced them again, there was a predictable lack of pain on their faces. Irritated frowns dripped blood as they shook off Sam's blows like they were nothing. "You want to play, then?" baldy rumbled, voice wet with swallowed blood.

The tall one reached out a hand. Sam felt the push at his body and mind as the demon tried to pin him back to a wall. Instinctually, he mentally dug his heels into the ground, throwing off the attack with almost-forgotten ease. Surprise registered quickly in the demon's expression.

"Not all gone then, is it, Sammy," he taunted, quickly regaining his snarling exterior. Still they continued closing in, not deterred by what they had heard of Sam.

This time Sam fired two shots, both of them hitting baldy in the chest, punching through skin and muscle on their way to his organs. The demon jerked back, anger washing over him as he stared down at the gushing openings ripped into his meat suit. He looked up, ready to bodily rip Sam apart only to find that he was already halfway down the street.

Sam didn't feel the pounding of the road beneath his feet as he ran. He had to get away; if he wanted to live, he had to get away. _Do you?_ his mind asked him, Do_ you want to live?_

Before an answer could be formed, Sam felt the sharp crack knuckle bones impact his shoulder. He grunted in pain and swung a hand behind him, catching his assailant on the side of the head. It was enough to make him stumble and give Sam a view of baldy lagging far behind them. The tall one had legs like an ostrich, and he accordingly caught up in a matter of seconds.

Sam tried in vain to throw himself to the side as the demon sprung at him. Arms locked around his chest and dragged him hard toward the ground. At the last moment Sam wrenched his body in a twist, letting him land atop the demon as they collided with asphalt and gravel, rolling until they hit the rough cement curb. Wrapping his fingers around the wrist at his collarbone, Sam yanked the arm out and over his body, freeing himself from the crushing grip.

Throwing himself to the side, Sam hit the ground and rolled quickly to his feet, casting around for his gun, an action born purely of habit; no consecrated iron rounds meant the gun was no better than a really mean hit with a feather pillow. Silently cursing when it was nowhere in sight, Sam turned to run once again. He was met with the sight of baldy standing squarely in his way of escape.

Behind him, Sam heard the tall one getting to his feet with a growl of irritation at how easily his hold had been broken. Despite the near total control demons were able to exercise over their hosts, occasionally they had minor troubles with motor movements. Being incorporeal was apparently not always easy to overcome, it seemed. It had allowed Sam to scrape by with his life more than once, and he hoped it would do so again.

Baldy still had his long knife out at his side, his smile just as sharp as it adorned his stolen mouth. "You're fast, for a human. Is that you or your special powers?" He spat the last two words, loading them with derision. "Let's see if you bleed like a human, too."

Sam pulled in fasts breaths, ready to take off at a moment's notice, but he was stuck between two buildings and the demons at his front and back. He hadn't forgotten what it was like to be alone on a hunt, but the way it tightened his gut and pulled at his nerves until they screamed was no less painful.

Then it was there, at his fingertips and sliding hot through his body. All he had to do was reach out and pull them from their hosts. He could practically see the black inside of the humans – they were close enough to reach out and touch. One twitch of his hand, one thought and it would be done.

Fingers twitched at his side, muscles ready to move. He was ready to do it, he was going to do it; he wanted to live.

x.x.x.x.x

Dean ran. He ran hard and fast, boots barely touching the ground as he ate up the blocks, barreling past street names, looking for the right one.

He had gone on foot to the psychic's house, not wanting to attract more attention than necessary. The last thing he wanted was to have the local Barney Fife catch him while he and Sam were in a fight. He was still ticked that the argument had started in the first place, and that Sam had been lying to him. Again. No, maybe not again; _still_ lying to him. He didn't want to believe that, but Sam wasn't leaving him a whole lot of options.

When he arrived at the house, everything was quiet and perfect outside, the meticulously manicured lawn laying open and bare in the moonlight. The front door had been ajar, so Dean let himself inside. A man was sitting in an armchair in the living room, his face turned toward the fireplace.

"Come in, Dean. I won't bite."

Dean didn't bother being surprised; he had known too many psychics in his life for that. He walked farther into the room, but he didn't sit as the man gestured for him to do.

"You have questions, too, I suppose."

"Where's Sam?"

"Yes, that, but I think you have other things on your mind as well."

"Who the hell are you?"

"Another interesting question with many different answers, but I suppose you mean my name. Call me Ashley." He stuck out his hand in preparation for a shake.

Dean didn't even look at the proffered hand. "Okay, fine, whatever. _Ashley_, what was Sam here for? And what are you – you're psychic or something…?"

Ashley regarded him silently for a few seconds before speaking. "At the moment, I want to deliver to you a message. As to what I am, there has been some debate – though I am impressed that both you and your brother seemed to pick up on it. Suffice it to say that I am barely mortal in many ways, and far too human in others. The term 'psychic' works fine."

"Oh, how freaking neat for you."

"Has anyone ever told you that you have a way with words?"

"What's the message, douche bag?"

"Well, if you divide it into topics it's more accurate to say 'message_s_.' I'm here to answer questions, give you questions and clear up a few things for you."

"Really. And why would you do that?"

"A favor to someone. Don't worry about that now. I was simply asked to do this because I am more adept at dealing with humans than they are. They aren't always used to us – many haven't been among us for some time."

"What exactly can you tell me that I'd even think about believing?"

Ashley considered Dean for another moment, his impeccably constructed jaw shifting a hair to the side in thought. "You want to know why you're the one responsible for the lives of others; why you are burdened with the task of being a hero."

When Dean said nothing, Ashley took that as a sign to continue. "It is because that was what you were created to do; you were born to live and die for others. Some are born to take lives, you were born to save them. Of course, it's not all that cut and dry, but that's it in a nutshell. Your case is simpler than some, but a little more consequential, I'll admit."

"Well, aren't I special."

"Yes, you are."

Dean's jaw tightened. "Look, I don't know what you're selling, but I'm sure as hell not buying some mumbo-jumbo about destiny or fate or whatever you wanna call it."

"I'm not supposed to make you accept it, only hear it."

"Maybe later. Tell you what, I'll call you later and we can do lunch."

"You don't want to hear about you or your fate. Fine. What about your brother?" He smiled, knowing he had the man hooked. The brothers were more alike than either wanted to admit.

Dean was still for a moment, his attention turned inward. He needed to get to Sam, but… he might learn something, and he wasn't sure when he'd have another opportunity like that. "Make it quick," he snapped.

Ashley's opener was a doozy. "He never needed the blood to do what he did."

Dean paused, blinked. "What?"

"It was a leash, in essence. Although if one wants to be more poetic about it, one could view it as the drug that makes the artist finally believe he has talent. Without it, he thinks he can do nothing of consequence; he believes that only when he is high can he achieve what others expect of him. A crutch and a leash." He flicked an invisible speck of filth off of his immaculate blue-stripped flannel sleeve. "Of course, in your brother's defense, he really had no idea what it would do to him."

"What did it do to him?"

Ashley looked up, teeth all bared in a chilling mockery of a smile. "Why, it made him into a monster. A freak, if you will. You think someone can drink that much of something that tainted and still be alright? There's a reason Azazel only used a few drops. That's all that's needed for the psychic perks, and anything more than that causes more damage than good."

Dean's eyes were black in the barely-present light, shadows cast deep and long across his cheekbones.

"Just confirmed what you've been telling yourself for weeks, haven't I? Longer than that, even, if I had to guess."

A look as black as his eyes was Dean's only answer.

"Your brother isn't evil, Dean. An idiot maybe, but not evil in the way you may think. No more foolish than you or others have been in the past. You think the world is black and white, that someone is either evil or good with nothing in between. The world is gray, Dean. There is very little of anything else."

"You just told me that he was a… a monster," Dean snapped, tripping over the words.

"He is, in his way. As are you. Both of you have brought this Apocalypse on the world, and neither of you knew or meant what you did. Sam lied about his betrayal toward you, just as you would have lied about yours if you could have."

"What the hell have I lied to him about?"

"You would never have told him about your deal with that devil. To protect him, you would have lied and left him alone. What do you think he's been trying to do since you came back?"

Ashley breathed quietly, his gaze sliding to the clock. "In theory, Sam could have been powerful enough to kill Lilith before the circumstances arrived that facilitated breaking the last seal. But so worried was he about what it might do to him, about what he might do to others, that when the time came he didn't believe he had it in him to develop his gifts. The blood gave him a high and made it easier to use his powers, as well as giving his handler a tighter grip on the boy. He wouldn't give into what he was, so it's much harder for him to find access to what's inside of him. It's very psychological, you see."

Taking as step back, Dean tried hard to keep himself under control. He wanted to hurt, kill something. And he wanted his little brother back right the hell now. "Can… if I even believe this…" He took a short breath. "What can change it?"

"You want to fix everything for him again. I understand. But there's nothing you can do to get him back."

The words didn't sink in for Dean. Anyone telling him that Sam was gone, that he had lost him again, that he should let go and move on… he never listened to that crap. The time he had been closest to losing Sam was when he had almost let go. He still didn't know the full effects of that, yet. Bobby had known all along – you don't let family slip away, no matter how far they run. "Thanks for the info, but I'll be buying my crap somewhere else."

Ashley was put off not at all. "You lost your brother when he died under Jake's knife. What you brought back was more than just little Sammy Winchester. The brother you knew is never coming back."

"Shut up." Dean took a threatening step forward, ire flowing and burning like acid through his body.

"I'm afraid I can't. You've both put yourselves firmly on center stage for this little play. It may not end the way you want, and it may not end happy, but you can take solace in knowing that it will end as it was always meant to end."

"Yeah, well, things change."

"No, they don't."

"I don't care where you think this whole mess is going to end; Sam is my brother."

"Yes, well, we can't choose our family, can we?"

"You son of a—"

"People," he broke in sharply, "are born with the absolute guarantee that they will die. It doesn't change, no one's the exception, and no matter what they do or how they try to outrun it, everyone faces it eventually. It never changes."

Dean resumed his pacing, steadily wearing a strip in the thick layer of carpet dust. "What are you saying? Sam's gonna die? Go darkside? Go to Hell?"

"While your brother interests me more than most others, I don't especially care how it ends for him. The journey there is so much more enticing to watch." He tugged the left cuff of his shirt even with the other, a slight smile still on his lips. Bright eyes met Dean's. "Welcome to the war, kid. Here you will find nothing but casualties. You can delay the deaths of millions, but everybody is going to die. You just get to pick who goes first."

"What does that even mean?" Dean frowned deeply, watching warily as Ashley gesticulated nebulously.

"At some point you're going to have to choose what means more to you, what gets your loyalty when the fires of Hell start to rise around our ears." He strode slowly around the table, trying to close the distance that Dean kept widening. "You're growing up, Dean. You're becoming what no one ever thought you would be: a leader. It's not just about Sam for you, anymore."

"It's like you're trying to talk to me, but all I'm hearing is cryptic psychobabble. Wanna try that one again?"

He smiled, sharp and knowing. "You're past the point where you can put your brother before everything else. The choices you've made have set all of this in motion, and you have to be the one to see it through. Someday, you're going to have to choose again; Sam or everyone else."

"Doesn't Sam fall into the 'everyone' category?"

"Not to you. He's never been just anyone. 'Everyone' doesn't include you and your brother, I'm afraid; that's how you boys make it, and now that's how it is. Of course, it's not just humans this time. What you do changes the lives of earth's creatures as well. Vampires to Tricksters, they're not going to want you making the wrong decision."

"And what's the wrong decision?"

"The whole world or one little person who should have stayed dead two years ago… What do you think, Dean?"

Before Dean could retort, Ashley held up a hand to shush him and stared at the clock for a moment. His eyes glazed over for a second, looking at something Dean couldn't see. When he came back, Ashley's brows were furrowed. "I didn't think to look for this. Idiot." The insult seemed to be directed at himself.

"Yeah, well, I'm going." Dean turned to leave.

"Your brother's in trouble. There's not a lot of time; they're after him." He lowered his hand, watching Dean with an expression touched by sadness. "Wade Street, south end. You'll find him if you hurry."

With that, Ashley dropped back onto the couch, his head lowered toward the ground. He began to mutter under his breath, the rhythm of the unintelligible syllables sounding like a chant. Maybe it was for protection, maybe it was for forgiveness.

Either way, Dean hadn't needed to know any more. He was out the door in seconds, not looking back as he bolted across the lawn and vaulted the yard's fence. He didn't know exactly where Wade Street was, but he was pretty sure he remembered seeing it on the east side of town. It wasn't far, but the blocks seemed more like miles as Dean ran them, the psychic's words echoing through his head. _They're after him_.

Who? The ghost and some pals? The police? Or perhaps something worse.

Grim unease nipped at his heels, spurring him to go faster. As he went, breathing speeding up, Dean let himself get angry; it was better than fear at the moment. Of course Sam couldn't go twenty minutes alone without something or someone trying to snatch him. Every freaking time the kid did anything on his own, he wound up neck deep in trouble. Well, Dean was sick of it. He was going to find Sam, drag him back to the motel, and chain the kid to the sink.

Finally, there it was: Wade Street. Dean took a sharp turn and dashed down the road, scanning the area for any sign of someone tall, shaggy and possibly in trouble.

He saw three.

Immediately his eyes were stuck on the familiar one. Sam stood between two fairly large men, the one in front of him holding a long knife. Just as Dean was about to charge in, he saw Sam's hand rise from his side.

Cold understanding jabbed deep into his abdomen, taking away his breath. They were demons, and Sam was about to exorcise them.

Sam was going to pull them with his mind.

Despair washed heavily over Dean, nearly drowning him in its dark waves. He would never get Sam back. He would have to watch as his brother faded away in front of him. There was nothing to do but try in vain to hold on.

Dean wasn't sure if he could do that.

x.x.x.x.x

Sam reached out, fingers flexed to grab and pull the aberration inside the human's body. Suddenly Sam's vision is overtaking by the image of Dean. In his mind's eye, Dean was as he had looked when he told Sam he wasn't right, that he wasn't human anymore.

_It means you're a monster._

The agonizing dilemma shattered inside of him, his mind pulling one way and his body the other, crowding like drops of glass in his throat, hard and sharp and drawing blood where they touched him. He swallowed hard, his decision looming huge and black in front of him.

His hand dropped to his side like a bird that had been shot from the sky. He couldn't do it; if he was going to lose his brother trying to stay alive, he didn't want it. He let his eyes close to half-mast, relaxing his body for their first strike.

"Sam!"

He blinked, head snapping in the direction of the shout. Standing in front of a birdhouse mailbox was Dean, his expression more horrified than the one he had worn when Sam had exorcized Samhain all those months ago.

Sam's cheeks flushed with blood, too warm now to feel the night air; Dean had seen him. His brother had seen him almost use his demonic abilities, and now he was staring at him as if he had grown another head. It was too much; Sam turned away, unable to watch as Dean's horror gave way to revulsion. What else could Dean be feeling?

Baldy glanced over his shoulder at Dean's shout. He sent a look to the other demon, and Sam felt the tall one shift behind him. He looked around in time to see another glimmer of metal in dull light, this time in the tall demon's hand; his arm was drawing back, and Sam realized with an echo of terror that the demon was going to throw the knife – but he wasn't aiming for Sam.

The decision was an easy one; it was one on which he didn't need to waste a thought. He wouldn't use his powers, but he wouldn't let Dean die. He took a step to the side, taking into his middle back the knife meant for Dean's chest. Sam knew what it would feel like even before the blade sunk into his flesh; it wasn't his first time with a knife in his back. His body jerked at the hit, heat flaring immediately, but there was no pain. It was shock, he knew, and he would use it to his advantage.

He shouted his brother's name in warning and then moved to block the tall one's view of Dean, turning his back to baldy and trusting Dean to take care of him. The tall demon's face was twisted, teeth bared in anger, already pulling out another weapon: a pistol. Sam reached around to his back and wrapped his fingers around the hilt of the knife imbedded just below his ribs. With a jerk, he had it free.

Grasping the knife by its tip, Sam snapped it forward and let it fly. It winked at him as it traveled through the light from the streetlamp before burying itself in the tall demon's wrist, knocking the gun from his grip. A shot fired behind Sam, but he recognized the sound of Dean's sawed-off and didn't bother to turn. Dean could handle himself, he knew.

Not for the first time that night, Sam wished he remembered those exorcisms he had memorized during the months that officially didn't exist. But like so much else in his life, they were broken and incomplete in his memory.

The tall demon snarled and leaped for Sam. He knew he wouldn't be able to block him, not really; not with the wound in his back leaking thick red heat down to his hips. Before the demon could get at him, the chanting started. The demon jerked short, hands going to his ears as he cried out.

Latin was being belted fast and loud in Dean's voice, the words sharp and intending to cause pain. It worked. The demons yowled in agony as Dean neared the end of the exorcism. Sam recognized it as a particularly fast, nasty one that tore the demon from the host with no mercy for either one. Not like it mattered now, he reminded himself dully, Sam had already shot one and stabbed the other, probably killing both hosts if they weren't already dead.

With a final shout, the demons were expelled from the humans and forced back to Hell. The two bodies dropped heavily to the ground, the sound of flesh and bone meeting asphalt ringing in Sam's ears. Or maybe his ears were just ringing.

The pressure in his back began to grow, swelling like an incoming tide. It was hot, as if heated grease had been poured onto his skin. He turned to face his brother, wincing when the action pulled at his injury. He stumbled slightly, but he still had enough mobility to crouch down and grab his dropped gun.

When he moved to get back up, he found himself pinned down by uncooperative muscles and the heavy haze of strengthening shock. The pain would be right behind it, playing thunder to the shock's lightning. He heard Dean as he neared, his breathing irate.

"What the _hell_ were you thinking, Sam?!" Dean dragged Sam close, hands careful not to aggravate his injuries any more than necessary to get him moved off the cold ground. His arms shook when one hand came away bloody from Sam's back. Gripping Sam's jacket tighter, he tried to still the tremors.

Sam coughed, his back pulling sickly. "Wasn't thinking."

"Exactly – you weren't thinking," Dean snarled, trying to figure out how to get Sam back to the motel.

With a snort, Sam began to shift and work to help Dean get him on his feet. Together, they managed to get pretty much upright, though walking was still a dubious action. "You're the one who's usually all shoot first and ask questions later," Sam accused lightly.

Dean's insides turned to stone. Sure he was, but with Sam… damn it, with Sam _everything_ was different and _nothing_ was worth losing him. "I'm not the one diving in front of demons with knives, moron."

"I didn't dive. I stepped."

"You shouldn't have done it."

And suddenly Sam stopped trying to walk, stood stock still, and turned the full intensity of those hazel eyes on Dean. "You're going to stand there and tell me if it had been me that you would have let it happen?" It was said with cold detachment and a streak of anger.

Dean realized then that Sam wasn't giving out a rhetorical question; somewhere in there, he actually wanted to know if Dean thought he was still worth it. Worse, Sam looked like maybe he was hoping Dean was ready to let him go.

Not in this lifetime. Not ever.

Shifting his grip on Sam, Dean started to move forward once again, feeling Sam wince with every step. "What would you have done if he'd had better aim, huh? What if I hadn't…" _gotten to you on time._ Dean swallowed hard, trying not to think of all the places that could have been hit and killed Sam in very little time.

With a small out of place, vaguely out-of-it chuckle, Sam replied, "Would've bled out and died, I imagine." He groaned as he took another step and misjudged, the resulting shock making his back throb. He hissed in pain again as Dean came to a dead stop.

"Don't." Dean's voice was coated with ice and as dull as old steel.

Sam frowned. "But you just asked—"

"I know, shut up."

The ground was hard and unforgiving under Sam's feet, making his already rigid muscles start to seize and pull at his newest injury. But all of that he ignored because Dean was looking like he had over two years ago when they thought Sam would die from the Croatoan virus.

"Dean…"

"You don't get it. You've never gotten it, Sam."

Chilled by the sound of Dean's voice, Sam asked softly, "Never got what?"

"You keep acting like someday I'll wake up, come to my senses and take off without you."

Sam froze.

"But I can't. I won't." _I'd do anything to keep you safe._

Doubt drowned almost everything inside Sam's head. Dean had gone to Hell for Sam; the least he deserved was some time in relative safety, which could never happen so long as he had Sam anchored around his neck.

With everything he had done, Sam couldn't believe his brother wouldn't someday just leave him. Dean had never left him, ever in his life, but part of Sam thought that once enough was finally enough, Dean would be gone.

Expression and heart turning darker than the clouds above them, Sam stiffened and pulled away from Dean as much as possible. Dean's grip tightened.

"You shouldn't. You should…you should be done trying to save me, Dean." The words burned like acid as he spit them out, almost exact replicas of Dean's message to him in Ilchester, Maryland.

"That's complete crap and you know it."

"I don't think so." _You don't think so, either. Did you think I'd forgotten?_

"There, _that's_ what I'm talking about – you've never understood."

"_What_ haven't I understood?"

Dean's gaze rose and locked onto Sam's. "That if you're gone, there's no after for me."

Wet, clammy bands of dread coiled around Sam's chest and threatened to crack a few ribs. "That's not true." _Not anymore_.

Dean clenched his jaw, and Sam felt him sag a bit.

If it wasn't for Sam and his demon blood, Dean could have been normal, could have been married with kids and a house and a freaking dog named Max. Instead he spent his life running from monsters and demons and trying to keep Sam's Hell-deserving ass alive. If that wasn't completely screwed up, Sam didn't know what else could possibly qualify.

Silence filled the ever-growing space between them, allowing them to fall back on the tried and true method of not talking. The trip back was going to long and hard enough with Sam injured – no need to add to it. And if the bite of things unsaid was sharper than it had been before, neither brother said a thing about it.

x.x.x.x.x

The motel was cold. The air had been left running for some reason, so now the chill gently kissed the tip of Sam's nose and the lengths of his fingers. It didn't touch the throbbing heat and pain that were stuffed thickly into the wound on his back. The area felt thick and stiff, swollen.

Sam limped into the room, walking past the beds and into the bathroom. He heard Dean hurriedly shut the motel door and replace the salt line Sam had scuffed on his way in.

The bathroom looked clean, but Sam knew that would change after he had dealt with his new injury. He snatched the first aid bag from next to the sink, grunting when his wound protested sharply at the movement. He glanced up into the mirror, meeting clouded green eyes that lingered in the doorway. Sam could see their most recent conversation spinning wildly through Dean's mind. He didn't want to talk about it. Maybe Dean would just… not.

"You gonna go get dinner?"

Dean blinked. "What?"

Sam felt surprise ripple through him. What had he just said? Didn't matter, he went with it. "Dinner. Unless you already ate, of course."

"What the…? Why would I…? When would I have eaten?"

"Earlier." Sam tried to ignore the fuzzy film that dropped over his eyes. The t-shirt Dean had tied against his injury was getting really wet.

Sighing sharply through his nostrils, Dean moved into the bathroom and snatched the first aid supplies from Sam's hands. "Sit."

"I don't—"

"Shut up and sit down, Sam. Please."

The last word flew out of left field and caught Sam by surprise. It was enough of a hesitation for Dean to steer him back out into the room and get him to his bed.

"Lie down."

"I'll sit."

"I can't reach it if you sit."

"I'll get it."

"You can't reach it at all."

"I can."

"Lie down, Sam."

Sam did as he was told, feeling inexplicably more tired than he had twenty seconds ago, and sounding about ten years younger. He winced as he stripped out of his shirts and lowered himself down onto the cool, ugly comforter. Dean pulled a chair over to the side of the bed, untied the makeshift bandage and got to work. Sam could feel his hands moving carefully, feeling nice against the uncomfortable stretch of his skin.

Twisting slightly, Sam glanced back at Dean. His brother's expression was black, his eyes were shadowed, and his skin had been drained of color. "What?"

Jerking as though snapped out of something, Dean looked at Sam as though he wasn't sure of what he was doing. "It…" Dean ducked his head and focused on the work at hand, pressing gauze to the wound.

"What, Dean?" Sam asked again.

"It… uh, it's not bad. It's a clean slice, mostly; you ripped it some when you… pulled it out. Still leaking, but it's not too deep. I don't think it hit muscle."

_It's not bad_. Dean didn't sound like he meant it. But Sam wasn't worried; Dean would tell him if there was something really wrong. Besides, he knew what it felt like when a knife wound was bad. He'd had enough of them in the last two years to recognize the feeling. "Yeah, okay."

His brother worked in silence for a while, careful not to hurt Sam any more than necessary. Dean cleaned the wound gently, and Sam didn't make a sound at any of the pain. He had had worse. And though he would never tell Dean, not being alone made any injury ten times more bearable.

When it was time to put in sutures, Sam worked to relax his body, trying to convince his muscles to lie loosely beneath his skin. A warm hand slid over the back of his neck, fingers curling around the side of his throat, thumb pressing gently into the line of his spine as Dean finished disinfecting the area.

Sam felt himself go as lax as possible from the warmth of the grip, even as he told himself it was just so Dean could keep him still.

As Dean worked, Sam let his thoughts drift.

_Monster, you're a monster, Sam_.

He didn't have to be told that he was _wrong_ in order to understand that he didn't belong anywhere anymore; not with demons or angels or humans, and now not even with Dean. A lifetime of hunting had taught him to pay attention to the things that didn't fit in, the things that shouldn't be in the picture. It helped them spot the supernatural creatures that every day infiltrated the lives of humans.

And now he was one of them.

He had become like a parasite to his brother, sucking whatever energy and willpower Dean had in order for Sam to stay safe. His whole life, he had just been steadily making things worse for Dean. Even Dean's death hadn't been enough to add to the list; Hell and now the freaking Apocalypse had to be shoved onto his brother's already overflowing plate.

Sometimes he wondered why Dean didn't just finish the job and be rid of Sam. But then Sam realized it was like those nature specials on TV; Dean, like other animals with parasites, many times forgot or didn't realize that their passenger would be the end of them, until eventually the parasite took all they had to give.

The stitches went quickly, and soon Dean was handing him two painkillers and a glass of water. Sam, now sitting tentatively at the edge of his mattress, took all of them and downed them, the water a relief inside his dry throat. Dean made him lie back down on the mattress, and before he knew he was sinking, he was deep under the waters of black unconsciousness.

x.x.x.x.x

Dean watched Sam sleep as he leaned against the wall, arms crossed over his stomach. He scanned the newly bandaged wound on Sam, unable to breathe or swallow. A half inch over and the blade would have gone straight through the scar over Sam's spine. The mark from Sam's death was still there, huge and purple-tinted. He looked away, the sight burning hotter than he could stand.

When they were little, Sam used to have nightmares. He would dream of the things they hunted, and once he even dreamed of a man with yellow eyes who had come to take him away. Dean used to think that Sam had had that dream after their dad told them about the Yellow Eyed Demon, but now he wondered if that wasn't where his dad had gotten the idea.

But when Sam would have that nightmare and wake up in a cold sweat, Dean used to put his arm around his brother and tell him that everything would be okay, and that Dean would always be there with him to keep the bad things away.

When Sam was sixteen, Dean almost died on a hunt. Dean had never seen the kid so shaken up before, and it scared the heck out of him. Sam had come to him and mumbled something about being afraid Dean would leave him, and so Dean told him what he'd always told him, what he had believed full-heartedly was the truth: "I'm always gonna be here, Sammy."

Now, ten years later, Dean wished to God that that was the truth. Recently he hadn't been able to do his job as Sam's big brother. He'd failed in the worst ways possible, and the kid still blamed himself. Not that Sam didn't have his own cross to bear, but the things from which Dean should have saved him were the ones that took him down.

Looking back, Dean still didn't know how to fix it. The trouble seemed to have started when Sam found out about their father's last order. Everything just got worse when Dean sold his soul for Sam; not his best move, some might say, but it wasn't something he could bring himself to fully regret. Remembering Sam's life fading away while Dean tried desperately to hold onto him, to keep his little brother with him – no, Dean wouldn't change what he did.

It wasn't happening again. No one was taking Sam away from him; he wasn't going to lose him, not this time. Despite this, he still didn't know how to keep his brother safe. Once that had been his main job, his most important one that had come to him as naturally as breathing. A lot of things had been different, once.

Watching the sleeping figure that was too long for the bed, Dean wasn't sure who it was he was seeing. It looked like Sam, but that was about it.

Something had happened that night – Sam hadn't used his powers, not even when it didn't look like he would make it out alive. But Dean had to wonder whether it was determination to change that had prompted Sam's decision, or if… if Sam had simply given up fighting. He wasn't sure which option terrified him most.

All of it, from the time Sam was six months old, had been pointing to the conclusion that Sam wouldn't or couldn't stay. The universe had been screaming at him for twenty-five years, "You can't keep him."

But Dean had spent Sam's whole life shouting back that yes, he could. That wasn't going to change now.

* * *

_"It is hard to believe that a man is telling the truth when you know that you would lie if you were in his place."  
--Henry Louis Mencken_

* * *

Constructive criticism is welcome, so please don't hesitate.


	4. Chapter 4

Some people have told me that a couple parts in my story resemble season 5 spoilers they've read. I'm staying away from spoilers until the fifth season starts, so **_please _**don't tell me that stuff. Anything in here that seems like any part of the fifth season is an accident. For the most part, I'm not even reading fanfiction in case I accidentally run into a spoiler. I've never watched a brand new season opener before, so I _really _want to be surprised.

* * *

_"We always say 'I would kill for my family' or 'I would die for my family' but would you really? I mean, when really put in that situation, would you really give up your life? Do you really love something or someone that much?"_

_--Johnny Depp_

_x.x.x.x.x  
_

"It's demons."

Dean didn't look up from his normally soothing task of cleaning the weapons. "What's demons?"

He felt sleep-deprivation pull at his eyelids. Sam had had a restless night, and Dean hadn't been able to do more than brush the edges of unconsciousness.

"They're behind it all. God, I can't believe I didn't see it."

When Sam gave an almost inaudible sound of pain, Dean looked away from what he was doing. Sam was pushing himself to the edge of the bed, his movements only just noticeably slower than normal. To anyone else, Sam would look fine. Dean wasn't just anyone else.

Sam walked to the cheap, tiny dining table that held his laptop. Carefully lowering himself into the seat, Sam pulled up the screen with one hand, the other spreading the length of his forehead.

"Your head hurt?"

Turning a frown on his brother, Sam quickly dropped his hand. "I tell you demons are behind something and you ask if my head is okay?"

"Is it?"

Sam turned away, not answering. "The guy who was possessed by Cozbi's ghost… I think he was possessed by a demon."

"The guy? What, like a demonic ghost orgy in his meat suit?"

Tossing Dean a wry expression, Sam gave a shallow shake of his head. Dean didn't miss the way he was careful not to move his head much.

"Not the guy." He hesitated. "Cozbi."

Shock broke like glass over the back of Dean's neck, stunning him for a moment. Finally, impossibly, he calmly asked, "How is that even possible?"

The skin between Sam's brows puckered under the weight of his thoughts. "I don't know if it is. I just… I thought I felt something odd about that guy, but I didn't know what. And now after—"

"After what?" He watched Sam, noting the startled look on his brother's face that was covered up in a matter of milliseconds.

"Uh – those demons attacking and everything." Sam was back on the computer, rushing with his words. "There's more to this than we thought."

The damp cloth in Dean's hand seemed suddenly too heavy, too sticky. "It's possible."

Sam didn't even look up. His head stayed bent toward the computer, those new shutters of his pulled tight to hide whatever he was thinking. It didn't work. Dean saw his brother's stony regret as clearly as if Sam had cracked his skull open and displayed the thoughts inside.

"What's possible?" There was synthetic curiosity in Sam's voice.

"Demons possessing the incorporeal. I'm willing to bet that it works similarly with spirits."

"How do you know that?"

Dean forced himself to keep Sam's gaze. "I forgot about it until now. Dad had some papers on it; theoretical stuff, but I think it'd work. He thought the Yellow Eyed Demon might be able to do it. I think he might have seen it once."

Sam said nothing through the whole story, but his eyes never once left Dean's face. At the end, Sam leaned back in his chair and gave a sigh that spoke of enough experience to fill many more years than he had yet lived – or was likely to ever live.

"Azazel."

"I think so."

"Why didn't you tell me about this?"

"Didn't remember until now," he repeated firmly.

Sam said nothing, but Dean saw his shoulders straighten, tighten.

"You think that might work with ghosts?" Dean asked.

"Maybe. I have no idea how that would work. I mean, theoretically they do exist in some form, but it's not a corporeal body to possess, so I'm not sure what the demon would latch onto." He broke off, mouth straightening into a hard line. "I think the bigger question is if it's true, who else has the juice to swing something like that?"

And for that, Dean had no answer.

Sam's hand was at his temple again, thumb rubbing in hard circles. Dean doubted Sam knew he was doing it.

"Sam, your headache…"

"…Is fine." He left his forehead alone.

The world went dark for several moments as Dean shut his eyes. "Don't lie to me." When he looked up again, Sam was watching him warily.

Dean noticed the flash of tempered fury fade in Sam's eyes fade to a smoky sulk. Sam massaged his head again, seemingly uncaring that Dean was still watching.

"What do you want me tell you, Dean?" Sam looked at him, his gaze hard and withdrawn. "You'll hate it."

Though it wasn't said, Dean could hear the fearful word that Sam had thought in place of the word "it." _You'll hate _me.

Never. "Try me." When Sam said nothing, Dean cut to it. "How do you know it's demons, Sam?"

"I saw it." The answer was quiet, almost a whisper, and Sam's tongue clicked quietly on the 't'.

Suddenly Dean's muscles seemed to be made of rigid bone. He had suspected, but to know was a different thing. "You…as in a…?" _Just say it, you idiot. Come on, Dean_. "A vision?"

Without warning, Sam was up and across the room, throwing on his brown jacket and grabbing at his shoes, his movements jerky and determined. He didn't look at his brother.

At the sight of Sam preparing to walk out, Dean felt his heart give a sick lurch against the haphazard stitches securing it in his chest. "Where are you going?"

"To stop all this."

Blinking at the clipped reply, Dean stood and walked over to Sam, who now had only one boot left to lace up. "All what?"

"Whatever they're trying to do. It's at that house, Dean, don't you get it?" All of that Sam said while finishing the ties on his shoe. When he was done, he stood and moved toward the door.

Dean snagged his arm and swung him around harder than he meant to – Sam hadn't put up the resistance he had expected. "Get what?" His voice was low, almost a growl.

"All of this, the hunt, the haunting, the house, everything is part of it."

"Sam, just tell me what's going on."

"It's all a trap," he hissed, "They couldn't find us with the wards we were using to block them, so they had to lure us out. They made up the whole freaking thing just to get us out of hiding. They knew we'd be in contact with Bobby, they knew we'd hear about this 'easy' hunt, and they knew we'd come." Sam let his arm go slack in Dean's grip, feeling Dean's hand loosen as well. He turned away, pulling slowly out of Dean's grasp. "I'm not letting them screw around with us anymore."

Rounding Sam to stand in front of him, Dean stood squarely in the path of the exit. "You want to let me in on how you think you're going to stop them?" Then, looking Sam deliberately in the eye, he continued, "We only have one knife."

Not missing a beat, Sam replied, "You keep it," and moved to go around Dean.

Not having it, Dean stepped in his way again. "Because you don't need it, is that it?"

Once, Dean would have expected Sam to recoil from such a blatant reference to his demon blood, but now he knew his brother would do no such thing. As he expected, his brother looked at him levelly, silently answering in the affirmative.

Sam's face was all harsh angles. "What do you want from me, Dean?" His voice was quiet, but it carried through the walls of the room, his anguish flying like spikes through everything that could hear him.

Dean caught one of the spikes straight in his heart, feeling the muscle thud dully around the damaging intrusion. "I want you to be okay." He hesitated. "I want you to be my brother again."

"Don't you think I've tried? I don't know what else to do, Dean. I can't be the person you want me to be. It's too late. What I did is over, and I can't change it. I wish to God I could, but I can't."

Dean stared, watching as Sam unraveled before his eyes, threads of his brother peeling away and falling to the ground without a sound.

Sam shook his head slowly, his hair falling in wisps over his brows. Hazel eyes looked up, shards of grief floating in their depths. "I couldn't do what I needed to do, so I just…I had to be someone else."

Recoiling, Dean tried to get a handle on his emotions, tried not to let it be known how deeply he was shaken. He cleared his throat, feeling it burn with sharp, acidic regret. "You're not in this alone, Sam. You got that?"

There was no hope to be seen in Sam. "If you had asked me for anything else, I would have done it, Dean." He chuckled flatly. "Can't ever want what's easiest, can you?"

Dean didn't want to know what that meant, and he was afraid to find out. "I don't care what it takes. Just you and me, brother. Always better as a team, right?" He tried in vain to smile.

Sam took a step back, as though Dean would try to grab him if he got closer. Dean was tempted by the thought.

Dean's expression hardened. "If you think I'm letting you go alone—"

"You should."

Dean bit down hard on a frustrated retort. But a thought stopped him; he had almost let Sam go to die fighting Lilith, had called him a monster, had told him never to come back, had let him spiral into darkness without lifting a hand to stop it. In a matter of hours, Dean had checked off every item but _clown_ on Sam's list of fears.

And he was done with that. All of it.

The question, he supposed, was if he could save his brother before it was too late. His decision was final and binding: how far gone his brother was didn't matter, because Dean would follow him down into the dark if that was what it took. Screw Heaven, screw Hell, screw the Apocalypse. What the hell was any of it worth without the huge, idiotic mess of a person standing in front of him?

Sam was leaving. There was no mistaking that. The only left to him was to decide if he was going to follow this time.

x.x.x.x.x

Sam didn't really remember not being angry. He knew, somewhere in the back of his mind, he understood that there had been a time in his life when he didn't wake and sleep and live all with anger simmering just out of his sight. The hurt and frustration he had felt toward his father and brother because of their lifestyle had never come close to what he had felt in subsequent years; it could never even approach what he felt after he had failed Dean in every way possible.

Anger at heaven, hell, Dad, Dean, but mostly himself: it had consumed most of his emotions for more than a year.

Sam grew up knowing about slews of different mythological and religious ideas and concepts. He had understood the Seven Deadly Sins since he was small, and had been surprised when he had found out that his brother was guilty of some of them. That was when he had realized that no one was perfect, not even Dean.

Sam had examined himself as he had grown and had seen that he had pride, too much as it were. But one sin he had was one into which Dean rarely dipped; wrath was Sam's main downfall, especially where his brother was concerned.

Sam knew wrath so often that they were on a first name basis, and he didn't know what to do about it. It had become his fuel, the way in which he was able to push through when he felt ready to fall to his knees. Yet it was the reason the world had been forced to kneel before the worst monster in existence, and soon the world would realize that.

His father had seen it in him, but had hoped that with time and age would come discipline. When that hadn't seemed to be the case, John had tried to drill it into his youngest son; the results hadn't been exactly what he had wanted. Sam didn't know how to fight the white-hot beast that was curled up in his gut, refusing to be dislodged.

The beast grew larger, louder, more powerful when Dean was in trouble, and that was something Sam knew would become frequent in the coming months. He was afraid of what he would do, of what he could do, of what he wouldn't do to keep his brother safe. In the process of making sure Dean stuck around, Sam might lose him.

In the motel, Dean had asked him why Sam wouldn't need the knife. Sam didn't have a definitive answer to give him, but he knew that if the demons came for them, he wanted Dean to be able to fight back. One of his visions from the previous night had confirmed that it was Dean they were after. He had briefly considered calling Castiel for help, but like Sam had said, he didn't trust the angels. Especially not with Dean.

Extricating himself from his thoughts, Sam kept his eyes on the road, watching the broken line of yellow disappear under the glossy black hood.

They had moved quickly, so quickly. Sam and Dean hadn't noticed, too busy keeping their heads down, too busy trying to stay under the radar to see that there had been a trap being built almost under their noses. The demons had bet on the fact that the Winchesters wouldn't stay in hiding forever, that the chance to save lives would draw them out. And what better plan than a simple haunting only a little ways away from the safest place the Winchesters knew: Bobby's house.

And it would happen again. Maybe demons, maybe something else.

"We're here."

Sam looked up. His brother was sitting straight-backed in his seat, his fingers curled around the thin steering wheel of the car. Those were the only two words Dean had spoken since Sam had walked out of the motel room and started down the street toward the Cozbi house. A few seconds later Dean had pulled up next to him in the car, his face blank. Sam had gotten in, and Dean drove.

Without a word, Sam climbed out of the car and went around back to gather weapons. Ten minutes later, steps more or less in sync, Sam and Dean made their way up the path toward the Cozbi house, its outline against the fading daylight looking regal and haunting.

Both of them were surprised, as they went over the last small hill between them and the building, to see someone else standing just at the bottom of the house's steps. It was a woman, slender under her thick, yellow striped sweater and pale blue jeans. Brown hair fell to her shoulders, looking unbrushed.

Sam checked to make sure his weapons were concealed before moving forward. He saw Dean drop his weapons bag out of sight before following; most people didn't know a lot about law enforcement, but even the average Joe with cable knew FBI and cops didn't carry old duffels on a regular basis.

"Ma'am?" Sam called, striding purposefully toward the woman.

She turned around, revealing purple-shadowed brown eyes and sun-tanned skin spattered with dark freckles. She was a girl, probably no more than nineteen. "Can I help you?" She asked it in a voice so weary that Sam wondered at it.

"I'm afraid you'll have to leave," Sam said gravely.

The girl frowned. "Why?"

"FBI investigation, Miss," Dean interjected, pulling out his badge. When the girl didn't even look at the fake ID, Dean cleared his throat and asked, "What's your name?"

"Meredith Hoskins."

The sister of the female victim.

"Meredith, we're going to have to ask you to leave the property at this time." Sam made sure to throw in a friendly tip of his head; the last thing they needed was an offended civilian running around town with a story about the FBI at the old house.

"I just left my job in Pakistan and flew out here to collect my sister's body. This is where she died." The girl turned back to the house, voice still empty. "I'd appreciate a minute."

Sam purposefully didn't look at Dean. He couldn't. Not when memories of Pontiac, Illinois were battering his mental walls with the force of a typhoon. He hadn't lingered long at first, but he was never able to stay away very long, either. Being near to Dean in any way had nearly killed him and yet had been what had kept him alive.

"Meredith…Merry," Sam tried.

Her eyes were sharp as she whipped around. "Don't call me that."

That was a tone Sam understood. "I'm sorry. Miss Hoskins, we're sorry for your loss, but the sooner we finish our investigation, the sooner we can catch the guy who did this to your sister."

Gaze dulling, Meredith shook her head. "Doesn't matter. It's my fault she's…" She choked back a sob. "She was amazing. I haven't talked to her in nearly a year, not after she… God, how stupid… She and my boyfriend fell for each other. That was her fiancé. Simon." A sad smile quirked chapped lips. "He wasn't worth losin my sister."

Without so much as a backward glance, Meredith hopped onto the stairs and climbed them two at a time until she was at the top. She walked over the huge bloodstain with no ill effects and stopped at the door, her hand on the handle. "I just want to see it." With that she twisted the knob and walked inside.

Sam and Dean were hot on her heels the second she hit the porch, following her into the house, protests falling automatically from their lips, none of them heard by Meredith Hoskins. The girl had eyes and ears only for the place in which her sister had lost her life.

"Miss Hoskins, you need to leave, _now_. I don't want to carry you out of here, but it's going to happen if you don't go." Dean followed the girl down the long, wide hall and flanked one of Meredith's sides, Sam taking the other. Neither of them liked being in the house without the duffel that held their salt and extra ammunition.

Tears coursed silently down Meredith's cheeks. She turned toward Sam, looking absolutely broken. "What am I supposed to do without her?"

Sam froze, struck. It was a moment's hesitation too long.

An enraged cry filled the room, followed a split second later by a fog of silver, white and black. Meredith screamed and Sam felt her being wrenched away. He reached out to grab her, his hands finding only cold and emptiness.

"Meredith!" Dean shouted, leaping around Sam and dashing toward the stairs.

The girl's body was being hauled up the steps as she writhed and fought against something she could not touch. Another scream erupted from her; it was the sound of terror for one's life, and it was something Sam had heard far too many times. Worse, though, was when the screams stopped.

He charged after Dean, arriving just when Dean ripped a small bag of salt out of his pocket and whipped it at the spirit. The thing groaned in protest as it evaporated into nothing, its wispy form fading immediately from sight. Dean didn't hesitate; he grabbed for Meredith and pulled the shaking girl against his chest. She didn't make a sound, just clung to Dean' jacket, terrified.

"Hey, it's alright, I've got you," Dean murmured, gathering her up into his arm. He ran his eyes over her. "Are you hurt? Shake your head yes or no if you can't talk. It's okay."

Meredith shook her head jerkily, hair falling over her face like a shroud. "It – it – it…"

"Dean, we've got to get her out of here," Sam said once Meredith had fallen silent once again.

"And get that duffel. Come on." Dean hefted Meredith higher, tightening his grip on her, his expression grim.

Dean led the way down the stairs and Sam kept vigilant watch for the spirit, one hand resting on his own packet of salt. It was all he had, so if he had to take a shot it had to be right on, else they were screwed. He followed Dean down into the lengthy hall and all the way to the end.

Just as they reached the door, Sam felt a force collide with his left side, bowling him over and sending him sliding across the floor into the eggshell-colored dining room off the hall. The loud slam of a door followed him as he slid to a stop. He gasped, his side singing with pain and feeling like it was at least bruised down to the bone, if not sporting a cracked rib. His stab wound from the previous night was on fire, leaking wet heat onto his shirt.

Carefully, Sam picked himself off the floor, holding on to the soft cushion of a dining table for support. When he finally got upright, he grabbed for his salt baggie, clutching it tightly. He glanced around the room, looking for Cozbi. He found himself alone. Taking a deep breath, he checked over his body. Nothing too serious seemed to be wrong.

The front door was closed. He made his way back to the door and tried the handle. It was stuck faster than Dean's hand to a superglued beer bottle. Sam couldn't help a vague grin at the thought. He tried it again, just to make sure, and then knelt down to peer into the lock, trying to ascertain what kind it was and if he would be able to pick it with what he had on him.

The pounding from the other side of the door almost made him fly back, but he caught himself at the last second, just in time to be surprised by the shouting that went along with the banging.

"Sam! Sammy!" More pounding.

"Dean!" Sam called back, but the pounding continued like Dean hadn't heard him.

"Sammy!"

Exhaling, Sam pulled out his phone and called Dean. It was picked up before the first ring ended. "Dean, I'm oka—"

_"Are you hurt?"_

"What? No, I'm fine. I'm on the other side of the door. It's locked, I think."

_"You're okay?"_

Sam almost rolled his eyes at Dean's insistent tone, but he couldn't go through with it; he hadn't heard it in a long time, and it made his chest throb. He told himself it was from his fall. "Yeah, I'm alright. I just got thrown into the dining room by the spirit."

A string of soft curses was heard at the other end of the line. _"I think it's sealed. I tried to pick it, but no dice."_

"Windows?"

_"Threw some cement rabbit thing at one, and nothing. Bounced back and almost brained Meredith."_ Dean sounded frustrated.

"How's she doing?"

_"Better than you are, at the moment."_

"I'm fine, I swear, Dean." He pressed a hand to his back. It came away dry. Good – not enough blood to soak through his jacket. The stitches felt okay, too. Mostly.

Dean made a noise that Sam knew meant Dean would believe it when he saw Sam with his own eyes. He almost thought it was all in his head, but no, he had heard it. Busy trying to determine whether it was simply habit or real concern on Dean's part, Sam almost missed what his brother said next.

"What?"

_"Pay attention, Sam. I'm going to try and find another way in. You sit tight and wait for me, okay?"_

"I thought you said the house was sealed."

_"Well, I'll unseal it."_

"Nice. How're you gonna do that one?"

_"I don't know, I just am." _

"Okay." Sam backed off at Dean's tone. A thought occurred to him. "Dean, really, how's Meredith?"

There was a second of silence on the other end of the call. _"She'll live. She's in some shock and she might have a slight concussion."_

"Dean, she should be taken to a hospital. There's gotta be salt around here; I'll look for the watch while you take her to the emergency room. I'll have everything with Cozbi wrapped up by the time you get back." Sam said the last part with an air of humor.

Dean didn't seem very amused. _"Funny. I'm coming in."_

"Come on, she needs a hospital. Not everyone's us, man. I can handle things here; it's a simple haunting, just like you said."

_"A simple haunting that's already killed _four people_. And did you forget about Cozbi's demonic buddies?"_

"I didn't forget. I'll get salt and handle it." Sam began walking toward the kitchen, intent on finding salt before the friendly house ghost or something worse showed up to break the rest of his ribs or something really important.

_"Sam, no. We're not splitting up. You said yourself that this is all a trap." _There was banging on the other end of the line. _"There's got to be a cellar door or something – all these old houses have them, right?"_

Sam reached the kitchen and began going through drawers and cabinets when a shaker of salt didn't immediately present itself. "Maybe. It depends, I guess," he answered, "But you should really just take Meredith to the hospital."

_"She'll be breathing by the time we finish up."_

"And if more people come looking for her?"

_"She's new in town; no one will look."_

Sam snorted. "Who says you have no people skills."

_"Shut up, no one says that. And stay in one spot. I'll be there as soon as I can."_

Realizing he was beat from the beginning, Sam sighed. "Fine, I won't try to do it all by myself. But I'm looking for the watch until you get here." He grinned in triumph when his search uncovered a large container of Morton salt complete with the little girl and umbrella logo. "Got salt."

_"Good. Make a circle and get inside."_

Sam felt irritation flare at his brother. There it was again, the same old "You'll screw it up, get someone killed, so don't move." But was he wrong? Sam's hand clamped tighter over the phone, warring with himself. Finally, he came to a decision.

"I'm not sitting in a corner to wait for you. I can handle this until you're here."

There was a pause on Dean's end. When he spoke, it was nearly a snap. _"Whatever. I'm coming in."_

Sam didn't even know what to apologize for, this time. "Yeah, okay."

Another hesitation from Dean before, _"You better still be okay when I get in there."_

"Uh…yeah, promise."

_"Be careful_._"_

"You too. It's not every day one of us is locked _out_ of a haunted house – new territory and all." As soon as he let the quip out, Sam winced from something other than its lameness. Dean _had_ been locked out of haunted houses before, usually when something was in the process of killing Sam.

But Dean seemed to be too busy to be too upset.

_"Bitch_._"_ The line went dead.

Sam stood still for a moment, his heart swelling from the last word Dean had said to him. He couldn't help the smile that felt like it might split his face; Dean had called him a bitch. He hadn't done that in… Sam had no idea how long it had been.

Sam made his way down the hall and toward the stairs, the thought that the watch was probably in the master bedroom floating through the back of his mind.

Dean had called him bitch, and that made whatever the spirit or demons could throw at him seem almost inconsequential. He could handle it, no problem.

x.x.x.x.x

Dean flipped his phone closed, icy arms of apprehension enveloping his middle. He didn't like being separated from Sam, regular old haunting or not. Which this was most decidedly not. But Sam was being Sam about it, and that meant of course that he had to go it alone no matter what anyone else had to say on the matter.

Dean would just have to find some other way into the house and hope the spirit…forgot to lock it… Yeah, freaking fantastic plan, especially with his brother in danger.

Scowling, Dean backed away from the door, the heel of his boot treading on the bloodstain. There was a gurgle behind him, like the sound of water coming from an upturned hose, and Dean turned to catch sight of sticky red-black pouring from the cracks in the floorboards. It oozed over the porch and tumbled down the stairs, falling thickly onto the path at the bottom. It slid toward him, reaching out with liquid fingers.

Crap. Cozbi was angry.

"Meredith," he called, leaping off the porch, jogging forward the second he hit the ground. He had deposited the girl near the floral bush behind which he had hidden his duffel, and where she now sat with her arms wrapped around her knees. "I have to in and get my partner. Are you all right alone for a minute?"

"What…was that?" Her voice shook slightly, but she seemed a bit more stable.

Dean leaned behind the bush and snagged his duffel, hoisting it over his shoulder before answering somberly. "We think it's what killed your sister."

Meredith seemed to mull it over slowly. "Why?"

He kept it simple – no need to confuse her with demon possessed ghosts and everything. "Angry spirit, wants revenge." Dean hesitated. "I'm sorry. I…know what it's like to lose a sibling." Sibling; the word seemed so inadequate for what Sam was to him. Sometimes it would be easier if that was all he was, but that had never been the case.

"Sister?"

"Brother."

Meredith nodded. "Just…kill the thing. Please."

"That I can do. Here." Dean pulled out a container of salt, feeling the remaining two shift in the bag. "Spirits can't get through salt lines. Make a circle around yourself and stay in it until either me or my partner come back out."

"And if neither of you do?"

Dean shrugged. "Call the police or run as fast as you can to your car. Keep the salt with you."

She shivered, pulling her legs closer to her body. "Thank you. I don't know why you care, but thank you."

"It's my job."

"I'm sorry about that, too."

Unsure of what to say to that, Dean just turned and headed back toward the house, skirting the edge instead of going at the front door again. He still couldn't believe that not even a window would break; that alone would have told him that this was not an ordinary everyday haunting. There was some serious evil going on in that house, and Sam was alone in the middle of it.

Ten minutes later, Dean had circled the entire house and ripped off some of the trellis on its side to get a better look at what had appeared to be a door. No cellar anywhere. Or if there was one, there was no external entrance. Dean growled his frustration at the sealed windows as he fished his phone out of his pocket. He hit Sam's speed dial number.

Sam picked up after the second ring. _"Yeah?"_ It was said so casually that Dean was instantly annoyed.

"There's no cellar." He winced the sound of the sentence; it sounded like a complaint, as if Sam had hidden the door or something.

_"Okay_. _I'll have to burn the watch."_

"Have you found it yet?"

_"Are the exits unsealed?"_

"No."

_"Then no."_

"Sam. Look, dude, there is some freaky stuff going on out on the porch. I think Cozbi's pissed."

_"Everything's going fine so far. The ghost is nowhere to be seen, no demons, I've got salt, and…"_

Dean waited for a moment. Sam said nothing. "Sammy?" No answer. His phone disconnected the call. Heart rate picking up, Dean redialed and was thrown directly into Sam's voicemail.

_"Hey, this is Sam. Leave a message—"_

Dean swore sharply and shut his phone. There had to be a way into that house. He looked around for something heavier than a concrete mammal to throw at a window and quickly spotted a marble birdbath that sat in a state of disrepair. He dumped the leaves and vines out of it and ditched the bowel before hefting the base onto his shoulder, jogging quickly around to the front of the house. He smelled something burning, like a weird leafy scent. He looked over the house, searching for any sign of flames. To his relief, he found nothing.

Meredith was nowhere to be seen when he reached the porch steps, but he didn't pause to wonder why; if she was smart, she had run. He ran up the stairs, skirting the still flowing wound in the floor, and stopped at the door. He slung the duffel over his back and shoulder to keep it out of the way. Then, without ceremony, Dean swung the bird bath into the window next to the door. When he pulled away, a small crack ran through it.

He grinned; it looked like ghostly sealing wasn't as indestructible as they had thought. He swung again, creating another crack, trying not to think about how long it would take the break the whole thing. Sam was in there, so Dean was getting through. The bird bath whooshed through the air in a third hit.

It struck the glass hard and kept on going, wrenched out of Dean' surprised hands when the entire glass shattered, throwing knives of clear reflection at his face and hands. Dean hissed when one of the shards dragged over the top of his wrist and left a long, thin string of red behind. He ignored it.

On a hunch, he reached out a hand and twisted the doorknob. It turned easily in his grip. He stepped forward, barely aware of the wet squish from beneath his boots.

Inside the house was silent and still, dying sunlight peeking through the windows. Dean stepped inside, wet shoes loud on the polished wood floorboards.

"Sam?" he called out.

The only answer was his voice echoed back to him in the oddly bare hallway. He walked in farther, scanning through doorways and archways as he passed them, none of them containing Sam. Then he rounded a corner into the kitchen and one boot connected with a fallen container of salt. It spilled as it rolled across the floor, leaving a grainy train of white in its wake.

Dean drew his sawed off from the duffel and kept walking. Dropped salt – Sam must have dropped it. Couldn't he stay out of trouble for ten minutes? Maybe hold onto his weapons while he did so? Did Dean have to build him a utility belt equipped with gun, salt, and holy water? Maybe staple it to his waist to make sure he kept it with him.

His thoughts grew disjointed as they were shoved to the side, his feet still moving forward as he searched for his brother. He walked past the island in the middle of the kitchen looked toward the sink. His eyes landed on a brown sneaker.

Following the sneakers were jeans and then a jacket. Sam's jeans, Sam's jacket. Sam was lying on the ground on his stomach, unmoved as though he hadn't heard Dean calling for him, hadn't heard him looking.

Dean's throat burned as his lungs continued to suck down oxygen. He felt his weapon drop from his grip, the sound of it hitting the floor too far away for him to take notice. He was by Sam's side then, his knees cracking against the ornate amber tiles as he went down. His hands reached out to Sam, landed on his back and pushed at him to wake him. He tugged at his jacket and turned him over, Sam's limbs flopping without resistance. Dark red smeared over Dean's suddenly ash-pale skin.

"Sam?"

One wrist was sliced open exactly like his throat, deep and wide. It was the wrist that held the leather bracelet, the one Sam had gotten with Dean so many years ago. The bracelet was slit open and lying by the still white hand. Dean picked it up, crushed in his fist as he met Sam's eyes.

The blue-hazel gaze stared at nothing, blanker than Dean had ever seen it. Those couldn't be the same eyes that sparked with interest at a new hunt, or glinted with amusement when Dean did something embarrassing; they couldn't be the eyes that watched Dean so carefully throughout their childhood and most of their adult lives, the ones that recently had looked to see where Dean was broken and how he could be fixed; they couldn't be the ones that softened with something suspiciously like love when Dean would bump his shoulder against Sam's.

It was wrong, all wrong.

It wasn't Sam, not the kid Dean had practically raised himself, and who, if Dean was honest, had practically raised Dean. People said that kids were the best teachers, and God was that true. Dean had learned to control his anger when a terrified little Sam had seen Dean make his first kill – a witch who looked for all the world to be a normal human. Dean had been taught deep empathy when Sam had had to kill for the first time at age fourteen in order to save Dean's life. Sam's eyes had been dull then, but there hadn't been much regret; not when it was Dean at stake.

Those eyes that had gone from intensely relieved to pained and confused the first time Sam had died and slipped away from him. Sam felt the same as then, too; warm and heavy, and stiller than he had ever been in his life.

Dean's vision gave out. He saw nothing but the red of blood and gray pallor of death, the colors mixing into a sickening paste across his eyes. It blocked anything else, everything else. Sam had been taken away from him again, and once again Dean hadn't been there to stop them.

He was on his feet and out the door before he realized he was moving, the sawed off back in his hands, slick blood smearing its side. He heard nothing but the deafening pound of his heart, felt nothing but white numbness, and saw nothing but his brother dead on the ground, his blood seeping into the caulk between the floor tiles.

A soft voice gently broke through the rush clogging Dean's mind. The voice was one he had known almost all his life. _Stop_, it told him firmly, _Let it go and just get out. Let me go._

The voice threatened to strip away the framework of anesthetizing gray rage that Dean had pulled tightly around himself. He shoved the voice away, knowing that if he broke free now, he wouldn't be able do what he needed to do. Even as his little brother's voice persisted in urging him to stop, Dean ignored it. He shoved the bracelet into his jacket pocket.

He reached the car and had it started without thinking about it, the engine silent outside of the storm that consumed him. Dean couldn't stop, wouldn't stop until he had killed every one of them. They wouldn't go back to Hell; Dean hoped there was something much worse for demons on the other side of death.

The world flashed by without Dean noticing, and then he was at their motel room, the door left open behind him as he grabbed Sam's laptop. He booted it up, barely glancing at the local listings that were on the screen. Sam had been looking for the psychic, had hidden it from Dean.

Dean couldn't have cared less anymore.

He ran through website after website, checking the buildings in the area, checking the weather report for demonic signs. He found everything he was looking for, everything he might have seen if he had bothered to look up from licking his wounds. There had been electrical storms in the area, strong enough that there had to be a lot of demons, probably most of them lower level.

It didn't matter. They were all going to die.

There was a warehouse on the edge of town, an old steel mill that had been abandoned for fifteen years. That was where they would be. Everything he had learned in his life told him that that's where he had to go. The laptop hit the bed with a muffled thump and Dean was moving again, past Sam's duffel without giving it a look. He couldn't look; he would break.

Dean didn't know how long it took him to get to the warehouse, didn't know how long it took to find the room where they were gathered. He didn't know what the layout of the room was, how many demons there were, if they had backup from other creatures. He paid no attention to the alter set up on the far side of the room. He didn't see any of it, and he didn't care.

The demon-killing knife in one hand, his sawed off in the other, and Dean was after them. He didn't feel the blood splashing over his hands as he slashed throats and stabbed chests, didn't feel the kickback from his gun as it went off. Demons came and went, cut down as quickly as Dean could reach them.

Anything he could touch died under the knife. They had taken his brother, made him break the promise he had made to keep Sam safe. Again, he had failed. It always came down to his failure.

How long he fought them, he didn't know. He felt no pain, felt no fatigue, only the heavy thirst for death that parched his throat and burned down into his belly. When his knife met no more resistance, he glanced around. More came in through a door on the other side of the room; they would die, as well. While the world around him was a haze of static, the figures of the demons were in sharp focus.

They would all die.

Dean was moving again, ready to strip the flesh from around them, to drive the knife into them as far as it would go.

"Dean!"

The voice again. But this time it seemed sharp, real.

Dean turned his back to the demons, ready to kill whatever it was that had taken his little brother's voice. But when he turned, he saw him. Sam, standing there, real and unbloodied: alive. It wasn't possible; it was shape shifter, a revenant, a trick.

His hand jammed into his pocket, fumbling to find the leather bracelet that had belonged to Sam. His fingers came away empty. He hadn't dropped it, wouldn't have let himself drop all he had left of Sammy.

He looked back up, meeting eyes that had been dull in death the last time he had seen them. The demons weren't moving; Dean didn't know or care why. He let his sawed off drop from his hand. He strode forward and fisted a hand in the front of Sam's jacket, jerking him against his chest. Dean wrapped his hand with the knife around Sam's back, crushing his brother's body in his grip.

Dean took what felt like the first breath in forever. He wasn't sure if he had been breathing; what was the point if Sam was gone?

After a moment, Sam gently pushed him away, eyes concerned as they looked him over. He shot a glance at the demons still waiting at the other end of the room, but then he was back to focusing on Dean. "What happened?" Sam demanded.

He didn't protest when Dean's hand held his jacket tighter.

Sam's hand moved to the back of Dean's neck, squeezing hard enough to keep Dean's attention, reminding him that Sam was _here_, not dead. Not dead.

"What did they do to you?" Sam's voice hard and deadly.

Dean was spared having to answer as one of the demons stepped forward out of the group and began to clap.

"Bravo. You two really are as good as I've heard you are."

Turning, Dean caught sight of the demon regarding them with the same interest with which a shark regards a seal.

It was Mrs. Cozbi.

Dean didn't let go of his grip on Sam, but he did ready the knife in his other hand. The blinding rage had begun to drain, but he was sure he had enough left to deal with the rest of the demons or go out trying.

"Did you like the little illusion spell I whipped up for you, Dean? It can paint some pretty disturbing pictures, can't it? Tell me, did it feel real? Sometimes I don't get the tangible stuff done as well as the visual."

Dean's spine stiffened as though made of stone. It had been her; _she_ had taken Sam from him. Real or not, the image of his little brother's blood on that floor was etched into him as surely as if it had actually happened. He still wasn't completely sure the Sam he held onto now was the real one, but he would take it if that was all he got.

"You," the demon said, turning her black eyes to Sam, "weren't supposed to follow him. I thought that with the little tiff you two are in, you'd figure he left you. Shame, really; I might have let you live a bit longer."

With a growl, Sam was suddenly between Dean and the demons, shoulders angled so that he didn't break the hold Dean had on his coat. "You want something in particular, or are you just killing time hunting us before the world ends?" Sam snarled.

"We want you dead. Well, specifically we wanted him dead," she said, jerking her head at Dean, "but that might have to wait."

"For what?"

"Can't tell; that would spoil the ending." Mrs. Cozbi winked at him. "You know, I bet you'd make a magnificent corpse. What color is his blood, Dean? Red like everyone else's? Or was there something different about it?"

Dean's vision flooded with crimson; he would kill her. He would drown her in holy water and bury her in salt and then he would slice away her skin layer by layer until she died. And he would enjoy it like he hadn't enjoyed anything in a long time.

"You boys like the little play we put on for you?" Mrs. Cozbi gave a graceful little bow, her thin body bending at the waist.

"The whole thing was a trap."

"Sharp." Her sarcasm wasn't hidden. "Yes, it was a trap. You want the rundown? It's short and sweet."

When neither Winchester replied, Mrs. Cozbi grinned. "Fine, I'll tell you. We possessed dear little son-in-law, who went crazy and killed his wife's daddy. Cozbi's ghost killed him of course, but that was part of the plan. We needed a vengeful spirit. They're not hard to make if you know how."

"Son of a bitch," Dean murmured through his haze of relief and anger.

"Then we offed daughter and baby, took Mom's body and killed the people in the house that Cozbi wouldn't. The blood clots were his. Stupid little ghost. Gone now, though, isn't he, Sam? So we slit some throats and added a haunted puddle for pizzazz. And that's the whole story."

"You slaughtered a whole family." Sam's voice shook with rage.

"Just a little one," she said with a wink, "You wouldn't come otherwise."

Sam stepped to the side a bit, trying to block as much of Dean as he could. "We're here. What now?"

"Well, like I said, we thought you'd take off and we'd have Dean all to ourselves. Since that's obviously not the case anymore, I think we can come to a new arrangement."

"What the hell do you want?" Sam growled, pushing back at Dean as he tried to move forward.

Dean felt Sam's stance harden, rendering him effectively a wall of concrete between him and the demons.

"Here's the deal: you come with us, big brother gets another chance to run and hide and stop the big bad Apocalypse."

Before Sam could get out an answer, Dean had his handgun out and pointed at the demon. He emptied a clip into her in a matter of seconds, none of it doing any good, but then that wasn't the point.

The demon looked down with distaste at the new holes in her blue-striped sweater. Her glare was quickly turned on Dean. "That wasn't a smart thing to do."

"Just give me a minute," Sam said quickly, trying to move Dean only to find his brother the immovable object to his own unstoppable force.

"Keep your dog on its leash," Mrs. Cozbi spit.

Sam bared his teeth at the demon before he put a hand on Dean's shoulder. "Man, come on. We—"

"_NO_."

Sam let out a frustrated sigh. "I know this isn't ideal, okay? But I think we—"

"Sam, no," was all he said, but his voice shook.

"Look..." Sam shook his head once, shaggy brown bangs drifting over his forehead. "You'll be fine. You have Castiel and Anna to watch your back, now. That's more back up than any Winchester's ever had."

Anger roared in Dean's ears and flooded his vision, casting a red light over the world.

Only Sam, Dean thought, could turn this into an issue of Dean's companionship. And the moron was totally, utterly sincere in what he was saying. "I don't care."

"Dean..."

"No, just shut up." He swallowed hard, hating himself for what he was going to say, but unable to not say it. "I'd let the world burn, okay? Heaven too, if it comes to that. None of it's worth a damn if you're not - if you're..." And just like that, he couldn't say it; couldn't voice what made his heart freeze in his chest.

"I don't have time for this," Mrs. Cozbi snapped. She snarled at Sam. "Do we have a deal or not?"

Dean pinned Sam with a look. _You do this, you kill us both_.

Meeting Dean's gaze, Sam didn't look away until he answered Mrs. Cozbi. "No."

Mrs. Cozbi shrugged. "Fine." She motioned carelessly with one hand to her followers.

"Get them."

Dean was ready when they came. Not long ago, he might have felt fear at the sight of so many of Hell's creatures, but with Sam warm and breathing next to him, he would do what it took to keep him safe, to never lose him again.

He hated it, but he let Sam go. To end it, he needed both hands, and Sam needed to be able to move. But he made sure his brother was within reaching distance at all times, keeping an eye out for him even as his blade continued to slice and maim.

He could see the indecision on Sam's face as his brother fought with only holy water and salt. The temptation was there to use his powers. But Dean also saw Sam fighting it, and that was worth more to him than he realized.

Then he saw it out of the corner of his eye. Mrs. Cozbi was standing in the corner, laughing to herself as he eyed the battle. She caught Dean's gaze gave him an insane, twisted grin. With that, she turned and ran up a flight of stairs, disappearing from sight. Something in Dean demanded he go after her, end it.

Sam began to recite an exorcism, and Dean played the role of herder, keeping the demons from escaping; they lunged for doors, he removed their limbs. Finally Sam finished the ritual and dispelled the demons. Dean saw his chance. Before all the black smoke had even cleared, Dean was already halfway up the staircase. In seconds, he burst onto the roof, the light spattering of rain tapping coldly against his skull.

Mrs. Cozbi stood at the edge of the roof, long hair waving in the breeze, her eyes blazing as they locked on Dean. "I would have preferred to take your brother first, but we can start with you. My boss won't be happy with the way it's done, but it'll have to work, won't it."

He took a step forward. Wet splashed across his cheekbones and flicked liquid into his eyes. He remained unblinking in the rain and raised his knife, fury curling through him like hot smoke. "Bring it, bitch."

Her face warped, losing all semblance of humanity. With a loud snarl, she leaped. She was fast; Dean only had a second to get the demon knife out in front of him before she was on him. In that split second, he thought he wouldn't make it. But then Sam was on him first, his back slamming hard into Dean's chest just as the demon collided with him.

Air was forced out of his lungs, making him gasp. Sam's shoulder blades dug into his collarbone, scraping as the demon pushed harder. Dean struggled, trying to push Sam off of him and away from the demon, but she had them smashed against the rough brick of the wall.

Sam's right hand was pinned against the wall, his gun gone from it, and his other was on the demon's throat, doing absolutely no good as it gripped at skin that could feel no pain. The demon's other hand was at Sam's neck, holding a blade to his flesh, the edge biting hard enough to draw blood. The knife that once again had been meant for Dean.

Shoving again, Dean tried to dislodge Sam. He failed to move either of the bodies pushed against his. Still Sam was held against him, a human shield between him and a demon who wanted his life; who would take Sam's if given half a chance. Dean arched against the wall, his free hand pulling hard at Sam's shoulder, all to no avail.

"You want to take someone? Take me, bitch. Let's see how much fun we can have before one of us ends up dead." Sam snarled the words into the demon's face, not reacting at all when her mouth split into a gleeful grin.

"Why fight us, Sam?" She leaned closer, the tip of her tongue darting out to touch the blood trickling down his neck. Purring her approval, she licked her lips as she drew back, eyes still hungrily trained on Dean's brother. "You belong to us, little king. We will have you."

Sam tightened his grip on her throat, and her only reaction when he drew her closer was to let out a gurgling laugh. "Then do it. Take me. Isn't that what you want? Me in Hell? We could go through a gate, take all of me down there; body and soul."

The demon practically moaned with desire, bearing down tighter harder on Sam.

"Take _me_." Subtly, Sam pressed back into Dean: _Be ready_.

Fear trickled thick and hot down Dean's throat, making him tangle a hand in Sam's jacket, the need to keep him safe almost overwhelming.

With a cruel glance at Dean, the demon sneered and released Sam's hand to wrap both of her own around his throat. Snapping her head back just as Sam moved to shove her off, she gave a huge heave and flung Sam bodily across the roof. Dean's fingers cracked from the force with which Sam was ripped from his hands.

Sam's body hit the ground with a hard bang and kept rolling, the force carrying him straight toward the edge.

Through his panic, Dean heard someone shout, vaguely realizing it was he. In horrific slow motion, Sam's momentum kept him going. When the demon lunged again for the eldest Winchester, her knife salivating for his flesh, Sam's hand reached out just as he hit the edge. Fingers curling into a fist, he jerked his arm back.

The demon screamed at an invisible pain and fell to the ground, writhing from whatever Sam had done to her. Sam scrabbled for the edge of the roof and missed, hands slipping helplessly over the slick tar. He gave a grunt and then he was gone, vanishing over the side.

Dean was on the demon before he could take a breath, the blade of the knife plunging into her throat three times in quick succession. Leaving the knife where it was buried in her jugular, Dean threw himself toward the end of the roof.

"Sam!" He skidded to his knees, leaning out as far as he could go, heart thrashing wildly against the cage of his ribs. "Sammy!"

There was nothing, nowhere for Sam to have grabbed on. There were trees, but…

"_SAM!_"

Dean scrambled to his feet and ran for the door, flying down the stairs and through the warehouse. Rain struck his skin like fire as he tore across the warehouse yard and around back. The dark parted for him as he ran, his feet striking the softening ground with sharp wet sounds.

It was four stories. People survived four stories.

"Sam!"

The growing darkness clung wetly to him, gumming up his eyes so he couldn't see. Dean wiped at them and kept running. He reached the place Sam had fallen, his breath flowing sharply through his throat, the sound harsh against the even patter of rain on leaves. He peered through the gloom.

Just four stories, only four stories.

Just as panic and growing insanity neared their peak, Dean saw it; a dark lump on the ground, unmoving against the base of a tree. He lurched forward, one foot snagging in the soggy ground in his haste.

"Sammy! Sam— oh, god…" Dean lowered himself to the ground, his mind numb with the sensation of déjà vu.

Sam's body was slightly splayed, his head resting back against an exposed tree root. One arm was wrapped protectively around his middle, the elbow bent in a position that looked wrong at first glanced. Probably broken.

For the next few minutes Dean assessed injuries, noting the cuts, developing bruises, and gashes that littered Sam's skin. The cut above his brow was ripped open again and oozing blood into his closed eye.

"Hey, come on, bro, give me something here."

Dean licked the iron rain off his lips and put a hand to his brother's throat, fingers nearly unfeeling. A soft thrum could be felt against his skin, nearly making him collapse with relief and fear; he had to keep that heartbeat.

He couldn't fix it on his own, not if…

Jamming his hand into his pocket, Dean pulled out his cell phone and punched in 911, waiting impatiently as it rang once.

"Stockton Police Department, how—"

"My brother's been injured. He fell from the fourth floor of the warehouse on Carland Street. Hurry." He snapped the phone shut and dropped it back into its pocket.

Sam's face was pale, but not the waxy white that it had been earlier – in the illusion, Dean reminded himself sharply, desperately. "Hey, don't even worry about it, okay? The ambulance will be here quick. Not much else to do in a town like this, eh?"

The rain began to come harder, cold and slick as it crept through Dean's clothing. He did his best to block Sam from the worst of the weather, fist clenched tight when he couldn't keep his brother from getting soaked. He ached to move him to the Impala, get him away and to safety. But if he'd broken his neck, his back…

Dean scooted closer to Sam, the heels of his boots dragging through the wet dirt and clumping by his feet. He gently rested a hand against the side of Sam's head, carefully not to fall out of his crouch and crush his brother. His fingers slid to the back of Sam's skull, cautiously searching for signs of damage. They came away free of blood – no broken skin. He hoped that meant Sam hadn't suffered harm to his head. Internal bleeding would be harder to find so soon.

The moments went by, dragged and kicking as they went slower than normal.

"Idiot." The word was lost inside the noise of the building storm.

"He is, isn't he?"

Dean jumped in surprise, head jerking around painfully toward the sound of the voice.

"Don't tell me you don't recognize me, Dean. How am I supposed to feel about that?"

The speaker was a woman, tall and slender, wearing a dark leather jacket.

"What?" Dean snapped, fed up with everything that had happened that day.

"Touchy." Her eyes drifted toward Sam before snapping back to Dean. "That looks pretty bad. I hope nothing serious happens."

Dean drew his handgun and aimed it between the skank's eyes. "If you know what's good for you, leave us alone."

She smiled a mocking smile. "But Dean, I can't leave yet. I've got something to get, first."

The gun didn't waver.

She began to look annoyed. "Put that away; we both know it won't do any good. Just move aside and I'll be on my way."

Dean didn't blink, didn't budge.

"Come on, Dean. I sent my little army here to take care of this and look what happened; nothing. Demon hoards just aren't what they used to be."

"Who are you?" Dean snarled it through clenched teeth.

"The one who possessed poor Mr. Cozbi's ghost. It hurts, I hear. It's a neat trick I learned a while back. Just like dear old Dad. You remember him, right Dean? He was the one at the end of that bullet you fired."

Realization hit Dean fast and hard, dragging disbelief behind it. "Meg."

Clapping condescendingly, she said, "Very good, Dean. I was wondering how long it would take that little brain of yours to catch up. Now be a good boy and hand him over."

Standing slowly, Dean moved to stand squarely between Meg and Sam. "What do you want with Sam?"

Meg shrugged and took a step forward, the thick heel of her black boot sinking partway into the ground. "What Lilith used to want for him; we want him out of the way. Preferably in Hell where we can play with him some, but just plain dead would be fine."

"Out of the way for what?"

Dean wished fervently that he hadn't left the knife on the roof.

She grinned, perfect white teeth set in beautiful mouth. "You."

Dean started.

"You think we're going to let the angels use you to try and destroy our Master? You're going to die, Dean Winchester, and I'm going to love killing you."

"What does Sam have to do with that?" Dean shifted close, hoping to keep her away from his brother.

"He'll try to save you, and with his power he might just be able to do it." She smirked. "That kind of strength doesn't just go away because he dropped the sanguine helper. He might be the only one who can really stop what we have in store for you. He knows it, I know it."

"Stay away from him."

"There's no saving your little brother anymore, Dean. But don't worry, you won't live long enough to feel bad about it."

Dean considered her for a moment, his heart hammering silently behind his ribcage. He adopted a bored expression. "You're going the same way as your dad, bitch. And don't forget your brother; killed him, too."

Meg was fast; she leaped to the side, skirting Dean and rounding on Sam. Her gun was out and leveled at Sam's body inside a second. Dean's gun was out again, aimed between her eyes.

"Don't."

"And if I do?" She didn't wait for an answer. "I'm not going to kill him tonight, Dean. My master has told me that he wants him for something special. I'm not standing in the way of that. But if he continues to protect you, I'll take him." She lowered the gun.

Dean pulled the trigger, not feeling the satisfaction he had hoped for when the bullet sunk into the front of her skull.

"Ouch. That's not nice, Dean." She put a hand to her forehead, wiping away some of the blood that had started to flow. "Tell Sam I'll be talking to him soon."

With an angry flick of her wrist, Meg sent Dean flying into the heavy trunk of a tree. White exploded behind his eyes, and his head just about split with the force of the hit. He grunted in pain and curled in on himself.

Sam.

Forcing himself to straighten, Dean rose to rickety legs and stumbled toward his brother. The dark was impossible to see through with his vision still sparking. But he made it and fell to his knees, finding Sam exactly where he had left him.

Plopping down onto the ground, Dean carefully draped himself over the cold body lying at the base of the tree. His thoughts began to wander, slip-sliding through the mess of his mind. He had a concussion, he knew; a bad one, by the feel of it. He let the confusion come, holding tightly to Sam.

The next minutes passed in a hazy eternity and in a lightning moment. The ambulance arrived, flashing red and white and wailing like the loved ones of the deceased. People swarmed over them, thousands of them it seemed to Dean. He didn't like it.

Sam was taken from him again, and hands tried to push Dean down onto a stretcher. He fought it, trying to remember why he had to stay awake, what he was struggling to reach. They took him in a different vehicle than the one he wanted, and he tried to stop them, to tell them they were making a mistake. No one listened. An oxygen mask was put over his mouth, and then his hands were held down when he tried to push it off.

He didn't remember the ride to the hospital, didn't remember anything except voices saying horrible things that slipped through his mind like a fish through water; they were gone in an instant.

When they reached the hospital, it all came back to him. He ripped the mask off his nose and mouth, opened his lips and shouted for his brother.

No one heeded him.

So he called another name.

Behind the men and women keeping him from making sure his brother was alright, Dean saw the dark-haired man appear. The crowd around him thinned, more of it following Sam as they wheeled him away. He could hear their words as they left.

_"Internal bleeding…"_

_"…broken ribs, and his arm is…"_

_"…bleeding too fast, we've got to…"_

_"Heart's giving out. Administer the…"_

" Castiel," he said with a near gasp, trying to keep the mask off his face as someone tried to put it back on. "Sam," he breathed, "Sam."

Blue eyes watched him. Dean couldn't tell if the others around him couldn't see the angel or if they were just too busy trying to keep him still. He didn't care.

"Cas…" He swallowed hard. His words stuck to the dry walls of his throat.

An answer was spoken silently. _I'm here._

Dean locked his gaze to the angel. "Don't let him die, Cas."

x.x.x.x.x

Castiel drifted away from Dean's side, knowing the eldest Winchester was not severely damaged. He would recover almost completely in a few days. But his brother…

He made his way past the humans filing through the hall, none of them giving him even a first glance. It was an easy trick; the humans were busy, so it was easy enough to direct their thoughts away from him. It was easier than explaining his presence.

Sam Winchester was being prepared for surgery, and he was easy enough to find. Castiel looked through the glass separating him from the young man.

The most recent weeks since the coming of the Apocalypse had been spent gaining intel and sending their enemies after false leads. He had hoped to give the Winchesters enough time to pick up the pieces of themselves before they were submerged in the coming war.

It seemed he had failed.

_Don't let him die._

There were rumors of Lucifer's plans circulating among the supernatural entities of the world. A frightened shiver had rippled through their ranks, putting the creatures on edge. Few had been willing to communicate with Castiel, but as for the few who had, there had been nothing but ill news.

Whispers of Lucifer's intentions regarding the world, Hell's legions, and Sam Winchester; the deeds of the youngest Winchester would not be easily forgotten by one such as the Light Bringer.

Before he had left the Winchesters, Castiel had told Dean that all he need do was call and the angel would arrive as soon as he was able. He had not thought it would be for something like this.

The doctors worked steadily and quickly, giving orders back and forth, trying to come up with a way to save their patient's life.

Castiel looked down at his hands, frowning as he did so. His powers were waning, fading from his severed ties to Heaven. No longer was he able to transport others with him, nor did he possess the power to alter the mind of another in any major way. But for now he might be able to help Sam in a small way.

Healing had never been his area of specialty, and he could not save a life, but he could give Sam a fighting chance.

Once again he spared the unconscious man a look. For one so young, the burdens he held were tremendous. Like his brother, he was capable of great things.

And of terrible things.

The blame for releasing Lucifer did not fall squarely on the shoulders of Sam Winchester, but there was no denying that the man's stubborn will could be a threat to stopping the Apocalypse.

Were he still under the command of Heaven's angels, Castiel knew he would have been ordered to end Sam's life.

For one so strong in body and mind, Sam Winchester was helplessly small on the operating table. His skin was pale, his eyes closed, and he was silent in contrast to the noise of the machines hooked up to him.

_Don't let him die, Cas._

Castiel raised a hand.

x.x.x.x.x

_Pain._

God, it hurt.

Fiery steel slashed across his chest, his back, his arms. Heavy agony beat a tattoo into his body, driving awareness out of his mind. There was only the taste of blood and the smell of rage mixing with the bite of searing metal opening wounds deep into his flesh.

Hell, it hurt.

Razors kissed his skin with cold teeth, shredding tissue and lapping at the blood welling from new chasms of broken limbs. One knife caught in a muscle and jerked free with a sickening squelch – the muscle twitched and writhed beneath his skin.

He choked on red spilling from his lips and raining into his eyes until the whole world was black and red and blinding pain. They wanted something, but he couldn't remember what. They wanted him to tell them something about… Alastair.

Shadows and lights swarmed around him, touching him, pulling at him, making his head spin sickeningly, watching as he was tortured. Fear pooled warm and copper-flavored in his mouth; Alastair had him on the rack, he wanted him to talk. But how could he speak with so much blood in his throat? He couldn't…

A voice called out to him through the suffocating fog of anguish, stabbing through the thick veil that separated him from reality. He was drowning, and he wanted to drown, but that voice was screaming. It seemed like he should understand the words – it filled him with fear and a drive to help. He needed to save him.

The undersides of his arms were slit to ribbons, crimson breaking past the dam of his veins and soaking the ground at his feet. Relief twisted with affliction to create hysteria – maybe now he could die and leave all of it behind. Maybe now they would let him rest in peace.

The pain began to fade slowly, greedily sucked down into a narcotizing haze that blanketed his senses. Why was that voice still yelling? Couldn't they just leave him alone?

And then he recognized one word being shouted; it was his name.

"_SAM!"_

Everything went white.

…

…

…

_"Hare's…damage…truck us…druther…"_

The words made no sense – stringing them together with glue and dental floss was no way to make a sentence, Sam thought. It needed to be sturdier, like a lobster, he concluded with satisfaction.

Time went by, he was pretty sure. It might have been a lot. Maybe not. It was tricky, time. Very slippery, almost sneaky.

He wanted to swallow.

He wanted Dean.

Then, as if someone had heard his silent desire, a voice spoke.

"You're gonna be okay, Sammy. I've got you."

Dean. It was Dean. Dean was okay.

"That demon did a number on you, dude."

Sam tried to smile to put his brother at ease. He wasn't sure if it worked. Maybe if he could open his eyes…

"What the hell were you thinking? The fall…it busted you up pretty bad, brother. The internal bleeding…you broke some pretty important body parts, and ruptured a couple others."

He struggled to open his mouth to speak, to shrug and tell Dean, "It was me or you." And if that was the choice, there was no choice.

There was a sigh from next to him. Sam once again wished he could open his eyes, but every part of him felt heavy, like that time when he was thirteen and Dean had pinned him to the hotel carpet for losing one of his Alice in Chains cassettes. He'd never had a wet Willie before that.

Dean's voice rouses him from his thoughts. "So tired of having everything try to take you away from me. You gotta cut this out, Sammy."

_I'll try_.

"You can't leave me here, Sammy. I came all the way back from Hell just to see you, kiddo. You gotta stay, alright?"

Sam remembered; he had let his brother go to Hell. Castiel got him out.

He felt himself slipping. He let it happen.

…

…

…

Beeping. Too much beeping. And what was with all the noise again? There was shouting and other voices. The shouts sounded familiar. It was his name being called again. Dean was calling him.

Sam fought hard, managing to slit his eyelids open a sliver. Dean was yelling, which meant Dean needed help. Adrenaline gave him a short boost of strength. His eyes opened more. Dean was being blocked off by two burly hospital workers, his face white as a sheet.

The beeping suddenly turned into a long, drawn out wail. The people around him threw around words Sam didn't understand. His head began to buzz, turning lighter than a helium balloon.

Too much light.

Too much sound.

Dean…

_Dean._

…

…

…

It wasn't cold anymore. That was nice. Sam had never really liked the cold, which had been one of the draws of Stanford. But Stanford hadn't had other things, and that was no good. But he liked it there. He liked Jess and the sun.

Sam stayed still as feeling cautiously began to creep back into his limbs. Everything was sore, like that time he had been shot and tumbled down a flight of stairs. Not fun. Movies were fun, though. So was knife throwing, not that he would ever tell Dad or Dean.

He was pretty sure he was on his back. It felt like a bed beneath him, too. For a moment he let confusion shift thickly between his ears before clarity started to return to him. Demons, Dean, falling off the roof, and then nothing.

"Hey, dude, you awake again?"

He had been awake before?

Bracing himself, Sam slowly opened his eyes, blinking in the light. His eyes flicked back and forth across the sterile hospital room and came to rest on the haggard face of his brother.

"Back with us, little brother?" Dean gave a wan smile.

"D'nno." Ouch.

"Your throat dry?"

"Nngh."

"Sore?"

"Nguh."

"Yeah, that's normal, buddy. They, uh, had you on a breathing tube for a while."

Sam blinked at him, watching as the world went dark and then came back from under the shade of his eyelashes. "H'w nng?"

Dean's voice was soft and quiet as gray ash. "Five days."

Giving a noncommittal grunt, Sam struggled to sit up. His limbs were weighted, soon joined by his brother's hand on the left side of his chest. It was warm. Sam relaxed just a bit, even as Dean seemed worried.

"Hey, hold it. Just lay there until the nurse gets a look at you, okay?"

"Deem…" Sam took a breath, tried again as Dean waited patiently. "Demons."

Settling back into his chair that was drawn as close to Sam's bed as humanly possible, Dean shook his head a fraction. "We took care of 'em. But, ah… there's more, Sam."

He waited, still trying to clear the antiseptic-flavored fog from his brain.

"They were being led by Meg." Dean glanced away. "You were right about Cozbi being possessed. It was her, man."

Sam gave Dean a look, to which he shook his head.

"I don't know why. I mean, other than the usual; she wants us dead. Nothing weird, there." He cocked his mouth in a half grin.

No, that was normal, Sam surmised. He coughed experimentally. It twinged. "C'n I sit up?"

Dean frowned. "Just wait until—"

"Hello, there."

Turning his head, Sam caught sight of a white lab coat, following it up until he met the smiling face of Maureen. Was the woman _everywhere?_

"We're awake today, I see." She turned to his brother. "How's he doing, Dean?"

"Talking. More than last time, anyway."

Last time? Sam thought back; he couldn't remember anything.

"That's good. Okay, can you tell me your name?" She was at the side of Sam's bed and had set a clipboard near his knee. Her fingers grasped his wrist, took a quick pulse.

"Sam."

"Sam what?"

He hesitated, eyes flickering to Dean, who looked back steadily. "G-Gelbowitz."

"Good, good. Can you tell me the year and where you are?"

"Stockton, 2009."

"Mm hmm, good." She nodded as she continued to check him. Sam barely noticed.

"You remember how you got here?"

He checked with Dean again. "Fell."

Maureen looked down at him, her brow furrowed delicately. "You landed badly, but it should have been a lot worse at the angle you hit. How did you learn how to fall?"

Sam's chest ached. He coughed. "Used to rock climb, no safety."

"A daredevil," Maureen said with a wink, "Let's just try not to repeat this, all right?"

Sam felt his eyes grow heavier. He let them close, feeling relief at being out of what light there was in the room.

"How's he doing, doc?"

There was a slight hesitation. "Okay. He should be able to leave in a few days, hopefully. We need to monitor him for a while yet."

"For what?"­

"To make sure things go smoothly. He suffered a fairly serious…"

The words faded into the background, and the voices washed gently over him, Dean's rumble as reassuring as it was familiar. He had feeling back now, and he wished Dean would make some sort of contact with him. Sam felt himself floating, sliding along the smooth edges of consciousness.

After a while, the quiet woke him.

He opened his eyes to see Dean sitting forward in his seat, letting his weight rest on his elbows, the bones digging into the tops of his thighs.

Sam watched him for a moment, struggling to rise from the deep sleep into which he had fallen.

"Why weren't you there?"

The question almost went unnoticed by him. "What?" Sam focused on him, his eyes a bit fuzzy. He blinked to try clearing them.

"At the Cozbi house. You weren't there."

Then he remembered clearly, and it was like a jolt to his mind. He woke further.

Sam glanced away, his expression fading almost comically into sheepishness. He wiggled his tongue in his throat, trying to loosen his voice before speaking carefully, surprised when the words flowed with relative ease. "I burned the watch, but then I got locked in the attic. It was a big oak door with an old lock, so it took a bit to get out." His large hands smoothed twice over his hospital blanket as he looked at the smooth ceiling above them. "Thought you left me at first."

Dean almost didn't catch the last sentence, Sam spoke so quietly, so cautiously. He met his little brother's eyes squarely. "No."

"Yeah, I found the rest of our weapons lying around. I smelled burning hazel; I figured someone had pulled something on you."

"Hazel?" Dean thought back; that might have been the burning scent he had detected.

"It's used in the stronger illusion spells. When I got back to the motel, the address for that warehouse was up. That and the weather reports let me know where you went and why."

Dean said nothing, simply letting his eyes blur as he stared at the minty waffle pattern of Sam's bed cover. He opened his mouth, stopped. Sam knew he wanted to say something meaningless, something to help him forget whatever illusion the demons had shown him. What came out was anything but.

"I can't ever stop it."

"Stop what?" Sam struggled to sit up a bit, to scoot a little closer.

"You dying." Dean gripped his knees hard. "I can't ever keep you safe."

"You've kept me safe my whole life. And I didn't die this time, Dean." Sam shifted his arm so that his knuckles bumped against Dean's forearm, just enough pressure to let him know that he was real; Sam knew what it was to disbelieve reality. "You've never failed me."

Dean hadn't had to say it; he supposed it was written all over his face. Sam saw it clearly, and he knew Dean felt as though he had failed, no matter what Sam told him.

"You're never going to fail me. I know you, man."

Dean turned away, the light in the room casting deep shadows over his eyes, making the sockets appear sunken.

Sam didn't like it. He glanced away.

"What the hell were you thinking?"

Sam looked up, confused at the contrast between the harsh words and the tone that felt colder than ice between them. "When?"

"You threw yourself between me and her, Sam. You knew they wanted you dead. You _asked_ her to take you before me."

Continuing to trace his fingers across the blanket on his bed, Sam exhaled slowly, letting his head sink into his flattened pillow. "I'm guessing this isn't a thank-you."

"Good guess."

He turned a bit toward his brother. "I didn't actually think she'd take me up on it, Dean. They're done with me." The last part was brittle, bitter as he said it.

"How do you know that? We don't know that. They could still want you for anything; lead Lucifer's army, anything."

"You're reaching, Dean." There was no use for him anymore. Sam moved up farther until the top of his back rested against his pillows. He closed his eyes as if he thought the conversation was over.

Dean was nowhere near finished.

"What if she'd done it, Sam? What if she's said yes? That's one place I can't go after you. I can't get you back if they take you there."

One at a time, Sam opened his eyes and looked at Dean, his gaze hard. "I wouldn't do it, Dean."

"What?"

"Whatever they wanted… if they took me. You don't have to worry; I'm not going to help finish what I started."

The Apocalypse.

Dean frowned. "That's not what I was talking about."

Sighing long and quiet, Sam felt sleep creeping up on him again. A numbness had started to ooze over his toes and up his legs, moving in from his extremities. "'Think they've got me on a timed…medicine…thing…" he mumbled, surprised when he realized his eyes were shut.

Dean said something he didn't catch, and then there was a warm hand on his forehead. Feeling himself melting apart, Sam fought for a moment to stay with his brother. Dean's thumb stroked across his brow, gently ruffling the soft hairs. He let go, knowing Dean would catch him.

x.x.x.x.x

Three weeks and some days later, Sam dreamed a strange dream. It was cramped and too hot and bright. He squinted, barely able to see through the white. It wasn't a good white, he knew.

"Sam Winchester. I'd have expected you to be dead by now."

Damn it.

Sam turned slowly, barely able to make out the now-familiar form. "What the hell do you want?"

"Let's remain civil, shall we? There's no need for things to get barbaric." The figure chuckled. "The light too much for something like you? I thought it might be. Here…"

The brightness dimmed significantly, down to a level that allowed Sam to make out the arrogant smirk and the wide, prideful blue eyes. Zachariah. The suit was as unwrinkled as ever; Sam wanted to throw something at it, like ketchup or powdered cheese. Something that would stain badly. But it was a tomato-free, cheeseless dream.

"We need a favor, Sammy."

Sam's mouth tightened into a snarl. "Don't call me that."

"Dean's little pet name for you? Well, whatever you like. Are you willing to hear me out? Not that it matters, of course. You'll listen."

"Let me out." Sam turned, trying to find an exit. He didn't want to hear what he had to say, didn't want to know.

"You'll stay until I release you." The voice was sharp, immovable in its conviction. "Now, we don't have all the time in the world; this connection with you is hard to maintain. Your mind isn't an easy one to crack. Had to find a psychic just to get this far." There was a note of fascination in his voice. "All this white?" He gestured around them. "It's because we can't get any deeper than this."

Sam turned back, shoulders twitching belligerently. "Where's Dean?"

"Wherever you left him. We won't harm your brother, Sam. That is, so long as things go according to plan." He began to pace. "You see, your brother is remarkably responsive to orders, no matter who they come from. You, on the other hand, are a little maverick, aren't you? That's not good for us, Sam."

"Shut up about Dean."

"You know it's true. He's a good soldier, Sam – and he'll make a great commander. But he needs directive, he needs a purpose. Without it, he's useless."

Sam shot forward, hand wrapping tightly into the fabric of the suit. He jerked him forward, his face inches away, his teeth bared. "Shut. Up."

He smiled.

"You don't get to talk about him."

"Let me go, Sam. We both know there's nothing you can do to me here."

Slowly, Sam released his grip, pleased to note the rumples in the previously perfect jacket and tie.

Straightening his attire, Zachariah got back to it. "We'd like your cooperation. It would save us trouble and save you and your brother some pain."

Saying nothing, Sam simply watched. He didn't trust them, especially not after what they'd allowed to happen to his brother.

"If you refuse, you'll simply have to be removed. This can be done without Dean ever knowing what really happened, so don't think he'll come to your rescue."

Sam shrugged. "Give me a reason to care and we'll see." He just wanted _out_.

He waited a moment, as if preparing to deliver a blow. "Your brother swore his allegiance to us. He belongs to us, Sam."

Blood drained from Sam's face, sucked down like oxygen into the fire pit filling his belly, leaving him dizzy and confused. "What?"

That warped smile again. "He took an oath to serve Heaven no matter what. We don't take that kind of thing lightly. The question for you is whether you'll join him or be removed."

Like a stain, Sam couldn't help but think. He said nothing.

"Don't be difficult, Sam. Honestly, you should know the right answer. Sure, there's a good chance you won't make it out alive, but I think we both know that's not an unfair sentence." He didn't say the words nastily, but Sam felt the dull sting all the same.

"What do you want?" He couldn't help it; a morbid curiosity demanded he ask it.

"Your cooperation. You have talents we could use, Sam. Think about it: the only thing you've ever done is kill people. Your mother, your father, your brother. And now the cherry on top: the rest of the world. All dead because of you."

Sam stepped back. "Stop it."

He moved forward, not letting Sam retreat. ". If you had done the right thing years ago and just swallowed the barrel of your gun, been a little slower on a hunt, then none of this would be happening."

"Get away from me," Sam growled, trying in vain to put space between them. Zachariah kept following.

"You are a traitor to the human race, an aberration even among demons, and the enemy of man and Heaven. You have betrayed your brother and your species, and you did all of it knowingly and willingly." He gave a shallow smile. "You turned yourself into a freak."

"Shut up!"

He didn't listen. "Never in the world have I seen a monster quite like you."

Sam didn't know when he had ended up on the ground, his head bent down under the weight of the words being hurled like stones. They hurt because they were true. "What," he repeated through tight teeth, "do you _want_?"

A face appeared close to him. "You're our frontline, Sam. The distraction, if you will; worm on a hook, or however you'd like to think of it. You keep them away from Dean, keep your brother safe until he can do what needs to be done. That shouldn't be too hard, right? Of course, you'll need those special talents of yours."

Sam jerked back and was on his feet again. "He won't want me to do it."

"Dean won't know."

"Yeah, he will."

"If you want him safe, he won't. He pledged himself to us because of you, Sam; to try to save you."

"You lied to him."

"Well, haven't we all?"

Sam seethed.

"We simply didn't correct him when he assumed…certain things."

"Find another pawn."

"You think that's not what you are anyway? What role did you think you were playing in this story?"

Sam silently reeled from the similarity of those words to others he had heard not long ago.

_Dean, yes… This is his story now, kid. What are you? Villain, brother, betrayer, sacrifice?_

He had made a decision then that he would stick to: he would be whatever his brother need him to be. He met Zachariah's gaze. "I'll protect him. I'll fight whatever he needs me to fight, and I'll die for him if that's what has to happen. But I'm not answering to you."

He laughed. "Very good, Sam. Very good; I'd have expected nothing less from you. Obstinate until the end, right? Well, you do whatever you want, so long as the end result is your brother alive and ready to fulfill his destiny." He stepped forward and patted a heavy hand against Sam's shoulder. "We'll be in touch."

The world faded out.

x.x.x.x.x

_Cold. There was nothing else. It stretch out in every direction, blank white and all-consuming._

_Dean stared at the body lying at his feet. Sam's eyes were blank and his body as cold and white as everything around him. Dean couldn't move, couldn't touch him, hadn't saved him._

_A chuckle brought his eyes up; they met green ones identical to his own that shone with sad victory. The other Dean watched him for a moment, stepping closer until the toes of his boots brushed the icy corpse on the ground._

_The other Dean looked down, a non-smile bending his mouth. "At least he died human."_

Dean jerked awake, confusion clouding his senses. He turned quickly, searching for his brother. Sam was sitting bolt upright in his bed, a hand on his head, his bangs obscuring his eyes. Dean was off of his own mattress and next to Sam's in a second.

"Hey, you okay?" He hesitated, and then laid a hand on Sam's shoulder. He exhaled when Sam didn't shake him off.

"'M fine. Just…a dream."

"Dream?"

"Just a dream, Dean."

"Yeah, okay. That's…good." He broke off uncertainly.

It had been nearly a month since Dean and Bobby had snuck Sam out of the hospital and back to Bobby's place. The older hunter had been horrified when he found out what was behind the hunt. Dean was right there with him on that.

But Sam had been different after they had gotten back; better, in some ways. He ate with them most times, and Dean almost always found him sleeping in the same place at night. Sam would even start conversations a couple times each day. A few days after they had arrived back at Bobby's, somehow the topic of breaking seals had come up; Dean admitted to breaking the first one. He'd explained it all to Sam, who simply nodded when he'd finished.

It had been then that Dean realized just how far out of the loop he was in his brother's life. He hated it. "You knew? How?" he had asked.

"When you were in the hospital after Alastair."

"You were listening." Dean had frowned, mouth tightening.

Sam's brows had quirked in a makeshift shrug. "Yeah. I went to get coffee, man. I didn't mean to find out, if that helps. I'm not apologizing for it."

"And when exactly were you going to let me know you knew?"

Sam said nothing. He let his eyes flicker away from Dean's face.

"Sam?"

"I didn't think you'd want me to know. Not after the siren." _I didn't want to hurt you again._

"I didn't."

"I don't care about it, Dean. You had no idea, and you sure as hell aren't responsible. You were in Hell; I don't think many people could have held out longer. You didn't know about the seal."

Dean had made himself say it before he could stop himself. "Dad did."

"Dad?"

"Alastair, he told me Dad lasted 100 years. I broke in 30."

"So?"

Dean blinked. "What do you mean, 'so'?"

"I mean, so what? You're not Dad. You're Dean."

"Meaning I'm weak."

"No. You're just Dean. My brother."

And that had been the end of the conversation that day and the door to having others. Like what Sam wanted to eat for lunch (not that he was actually eating much) and which football team was likely to lose. The latter never went very well; neither of them knew much about the sport; if anything, Sam knew more from his college days.

Visions had kept coming to Sam; Dean knew it, though Sam never said anything. He knew what prophetic dreams and waking visions looked like on his brother. He waited, wanting Sam to come to him on his own. But he knew he couldn't wait much longer.

And yet in all the time between leaving Stockton and now, Dean hadn't seen Sam wake from a dream this shaken. "You wanna tell me what it was about?" He gripped Sam's shoulder tighter.

Sam shook his head slightly and pushed at Dean with his good arm to move so he could get up. Dean backed away, ready to grab his brother if he stumbled. Sam had healed quickly, and he only had a twinge of pain when he bent wrong or something that was still healing shifted too much. Other than his broken arm and a few broken ribs, he was okay. And for them, for _anyone_ after that, that was pretty good.

"I'm gonna go get some water," Sam mumbled, shuffling to the door, disappearing around the corner, snatching his arm sling as he went..

Dean dropped onto the edge of Sam's bed and sighed. He scrubbed a palm across his eyes, trying to come up with a way to break through Sam's defenses this time. Dean didn't know what being a full-time mother was like, but he was sure what he was going through was pretty damn close. He chuckled at the simile, the irony not lost on him.

"You boys awake?" The gruff question came from the hall.

"Yeah, Bobby. Sam's downstairs."

Bobby came through the door, fully dressed at… Dean glanced at the clock. Bobby was already dressed at four in the morning, trucker hat and all.

"How's he doin'?" Bobby made his way to stand near Dean, one hand in his jeans pocket.

"I don't know anymore. I keep thinking he's getting better, but then…" Dean flicked a hand at the empty doorway. "He's keeping stuff from me again."

Bobby grunted. "You got any idea what?"

Dean tiredly shook his head, eyes staring into nothing. "Nah. I didn't have a clue all year; what makes you think I would now?" He tried to smile like it was a joke.

Bobby didn't smile.

Dean's voice lowered, softened. "What do I do, Bobby? What if he's started up again?"

"Well, you can lock him up, leave him, kill him…" Bobby ignored the sharp look Dean shot at him and continued. "Or you could somethin' really crazy and live with it."

"Bobby…" Dean warned.

"You think that kid likes this any more than you do? He's the one with the evil in him, boy. If this thing's really a part of your brother that's not gonna go away, you gotta pick one of those options."

"I don't think he's never going to stop, Bobby." Dean's voice was tired, resigned.

"Then there's just one question left: are you gonna stop lookin' out for him?"

"I – I don't… He lied, Bobby. He trusted demons and look what happened to him." Dean kicked his heel into the leg of the bed, making the wood pop in its socket. "How the hell did he get like this?" It had happened when he wasn't looking; he had missed it, and for that he couldn't forgive himself.

"You died." Bobby said it as if it was that simple.

Dean shook his head. "I get that, but that can't be it. He's stronger than that."

Letting out a short breath, Bobby gave Dean a look. "It's got nothin' to do with _strong_. You two are just alike: more stubborn than your daddy, blinder than bats. Sam'd do anything, _kill_ anything for you. And losin' you 's what broke him." He bent his head, closing his eyes briefly as though he were tired. "I'm not sayin' you two don't have a hell of a time ahead of you; I'm just sayin' that maybe you wanna talk to him before either of you throws out everything you've got. And with what's comin', you could lose it all anyway."

Dean barely noticed when Bobby made his exit the way he had come. Everything else fell to the back of his mind like water to the side of a tilting bowl. He'd talk to Sam – not that it would do any good, but he'd try. No accusing, no guilt trips, just talk.

Right.

By the time he was up, dressed, and heading in search of Sam, Dean had come to a decision: Fate, if it existed was a bitch. But that bitch wasn't getting Sam.

x.x.x.x.x

Ten minutes of searching finally found Sam sitting in a chair in the panic room tucked away under Bobby's house. The blades in the overhead fan swung sluggishly, sending shadows rolling rhythmically over Sam's long frame. He faced the door, his posture uncharacteristically slouched against the back of his chair.

Dean's knuckles thunked loudly against the metal of the door as he knocked unnecessarily. "Hey, can I come in?"

"It's not my room. Do whatever you want."

"Right." Dean stepped into the room and looked around. "Uh, the couch upstairs is more comfortable…"

All of the weapons, shelves, books, and other assorted items that had been removed for Sam's short imprisonment had been returned to their places, all of it looking as if nothing had ever happened.

A grim smile quirked one corner of Sam's mouth. "Sometimes I think I belong here more than up there."

"Than where? In Bobby's house?"

Sam shrugged. "Bobby's house, around people…"

Dean stepped closer, dread making his wrists tingle. Something had happened; he didn't know what, and he didn't know when, but something had happened to Sam. He could see it now, in the way his brother stood, spoke, looked at him. Whatever it was, Sam was hiding it.

Sam shook his head. "I have to go." He stood but made no move for the door.

"What?"

"Leave. I've gotta – gotta go." Sam still wasn't looking at him.

"Where? Are you feeling okay?"

Then he looked up. Dean understood – Sam wasn't going out, he was _leaving_.

His eyes lifted to Sam's, bitterness rising up his throat. "I can't pin you down, no matter what I do, can I? I tried, god knows I've tried. I can find you, but I can't stop you from running."

"I'm not running," Sam bit out.

"That's crap."

"It's not. I have to do this."

"What? Is it something only you can do, like last time?"

Sam lowered his head a fraction of an inch. Not surrendering, just conceding the point. "No, but I'd work best for it."

"What's that?" he asked again.

Sam hesitated, as though weighing the risks of what he was going to say; deciding how much he was going to tell Dean. "Running interference, playing decoy, playing bait."

Dean frowned deeply. "For what?"

"Everything that's after you. I'm supposed to give you enough time to… I don't know what. Fix the seals, become Heaven's warrior, I don't know. Doesn't matter."

"What the _hell_ are you talking about?" Dean feels himself nearing the edge of a freak out. Then realization dawned fast and furious. "The angels."

"No. But they didn't hesitate to let me know that if I didn't help willingly, they'd throw me into the path of the train. I've got no problem walking the tracks, but I'm not taking orders from them."

"What the hell? You're gonna what? Lead an army, go on a suicide mission? What?"

"Whatever it takes, I guess. And this…" Sam held up his good hand for a moment before letting it drop back to his side. "…can only help."

"I think recent events say otherwise, Sam."

"I know. But this time, no demons, no angels, just me. And all I'm doing is slowing them down, keeping them away until it's over or I'm dead."

Dean's shoulders hunched as though trying to protect himself from what Sam was saying. "Sam, no more, okay? Just, no more. Please, you have to stop."

Expression softening, Sam shook his head. "I did. I've just got to figure out how to flip the switches, I guess."

Dean's fuse burned down to the root. He reached out and grabbed the end of the desk standing next to Sam, whipping it up and over, papers and knick knacks flying everywhere.

"You selfish son of a bitch! So you get to run around playing vigilante and the rest of us either have to kill you or watch you die?"

Sam hesitated. "You don't have to watch," he said quietly.

Dean shook with rage. "You think it was fun for me, Sam? Watching you strung out and _dying_ for all I knew? Do you think I _liked_ locking you up and watch you lose it down here?"

Not backing down, Sam met Dean in the middle of the room, seething. "Yeah, you're right, how could I possibly do that to you? Lucky me, I only had to watch you die for a year, _know_ there wasn't any way to stop it, and then watch you torn to pieces because I screwed up! Ruby offered me a way out, and I didn't take it, and I wish like hell I had.

"I'm not doing it again, Dean; I can't. I can't."

Dean surged forward, wrapping his fists in the top of Sam's shirt. He shoved him backward, meeting no resistance from his little brother, ignoring the slight wince the movement brought out of him. "You're not doing this; you are not going to Hell."

Shaggy brown hair shifted over Sam's face as he tilted his head down toward Dean, watching him neutrally. "It's my turn."

"Shut the hell up, Sam."

Their eyes locked, Dean's furious green ones on Sam's sharp blue. "Why didn't you do it?"

Blinking, Dean frowned in confusion, scowling at the change of topic. "What are you talking about?"

"After St. Mary's Convent. You didn't do it. I want to know why."

Dean growled and gripped Sam's shirt tighter, hitching higher on his chest, mindful of the still-healing rib lower down. "Do what?"

"Kill me."

"_Kill you?_"

"You came after me, but you didn't kill me. Was it because you were too late?"

"What? I was never going to – to kill you." Dean swallowed hard after the last two words, his fingers slipping slowly from the plaid fabric held between them. _But I was going to let you die_.

A frustrated sigh escaped Sam. "Then what, you just sent that message to be funny?"

"The phone message?"

"Yeah, that one." Sam's voice was sardonic. He reached up to try and pry Dean's fingers off of him, but his brother held fast.

Dean refused to let Sam slip away before he knew what was going on. "How did you get 'I'm going to kill you' from that message?"

"When you said you were done trying to save me." Sam's voice shivered.

Feeling as though Sam was trying to get him to read Sanskrit backwards, Dean held onto his brother tighter, afraid he would never catch him again if he let go. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"I heard it, Dean."

"Apparently you were insane, because I said… Well, it cut off, but I said that…" He exhaled sharply, fighting back waves of embarrassment. "Damn it. Look, we're brothers. That's never gonna change, and that's enough for me to stick around, okay?" _Like I should have done from the start_.

Sam scowled in frustration and began digging in his back pocket. He pulled out his phone, hit a few buttons, and handed it to Dean. "I got the message, Dean. I get it." _I'm not an idiot; I know what I heard_, his tone said.

Pausing to stare at the Blackberry, Dean accepted it after a moment. He put it to his ear, the plastic warm from being in Sam's pocket. His other hand remained tangled in Sam's outer shirt.

A mechanical voice purred, "First saved message. Sent May 14 at 11:16 PM." That was about the right time Dean would have left his message for Sam; he listened for the beginning of his apology. His own voice spoke, but the words were all wrong.

_"Listen to me, you blood-sucking freak. Dad always said I'd have to save you or kill you. Well, I'm giving you fair warning: I'm done trying to save you. You're a monster, Sam, a vampire. You're not you anymore, and there's no going back_."

"End of saved message. To delete this message, press—"

Dean slammed the phone shut.

Zachariah's words came back in full force.

_Sam… has a part to play. A very important part. He may need a little nudging in the right direction, but I'll make sure he plays it._

They'd wanted him out of the way to give them a clear path for screwing Sam over.

"Sonuvabitch!" Dean gripped the phone tight enough that the plastic groaned in pain.

"Dean! Watch it," Sam protested, scrabbling to snatch the thing back before Dean broke it.

Pulling the cell away from Sam's searching hands, Dean kept his grip tight in Sam's clothing. He just needed a second to think, a moment to let the absolute horror pass. _Kill Sam_. He felt his stomach roil. To hear himself say that… God, had then been what he sounded like in Bobby's living room?

_I am sick and tired of chasing after him. Screw him. He can do what he wants. … Sam's gone. He's gone. I'm not even sure if he's still my brother anymore. If he ever was._

Dean had sudden, clear, and horrible understanding; it made sense, now, the weird things Sam had been saying. When he had been facing Lilith, Sam had thought Dean had come to _kill_ him; he had thought Dean wanted him dead. That was why he had been watching Dean like… like he was waiting to die.

"I didn't – I _never_ sent you that message," Dean said, forcing the words around the fury clogging his throat.

Confusion clouded over Sam's sorrow. "What d'you mean? I heard it. _You _heard it."

"Wasn't me, Sam."

A pained smile took up residence on Sam's mouth, showing his disbelief in Dean's statement. He once again tried to get out of Dean's grip.

Dean snarled at the look and held Sam fast. _No you don't_.

"Zachariah, some other angel, I don't know who exactly, but it was the angels. They wanted you away from me so you'd kill Lilith. They've wanted this the whole time." Guilt scratched at his heart – they'd used him to get to Sam, and he'd gone and helped the bastards do it.

Sam shrugged, as though whoever sent the message wasn't important. "Okay, fine, they sent it. It worked."

_He doesn't believe me_.

There was that look on Sam's face again, the one that said _He's trying to trick me, but what the hell – none of it matters, anyway_. Dean hated that look. He'd never seen it before this last year, and if it was all the same, would rather never see it again.

"I don't want you dead, Sam."

"Fine."

Dean's fist ached with the desire to connect with Sam's jaw, to try forcing some sense into his thick skull, to deal out some of the hurt Sam was hurling at him.

He tossed the cell phone onto the upended desk, ignoring Sam's noise of protestation at the handling of his phone. Twisting his fingers back into Sam's shirt, Dean held him firmly and made sure his brother was watching him.

"Let me tell you something," Dean continued, leaning toward Sam, not heeding Sam's flinch, voice hard as steel, "If you think you or anyone else is ending your life, forget it. You go, I gotta follow, and I'm not going anywhere, understand?" He paused to make sure Sam was hearing every word. "We're sticking around. At least until I can tear those bastards apart," Dean finished with a snarl.

Sam looked paler, drawing back into himself, hands trembling slightly.

"Dean," Sam pleaded, "Can't you see it? You know what I am, you saw what I'm capable of, and you saw what I've _already done_. No one can love something like that."

That time did swing at him, but he pulled the hit at the last second, his fist slamming against the hard metal of the wall, sending pain zagging up his bones. He drew his hand back, barely feeling the pain. "You don't get to do that." He didn't look at his brother. "Don't you dare."

"Why the hell do – do you care?"

Dean slowed to a stop, feeling a sharp pain between his shoulder blades where Sam's words struck with deadly accuracy. Never, _never_ had he thought things would get to that point; Sam wanted to know if he could count on Dean, if Dean even _loved him_ anymore. As though that was something Dean could do – not love him.

Sam's eyes were the color of coal, his huge frame wilted. "What about me could _possibly_ make you want to do anything but kill me?" Behind the hurt was morbidly genuine curiosity.

He wanted to hear that there was something about him that made him worth keeping alive; that to Dean, he was worth it.

Dean warred briefly with himself, torn. "You want the truth?"

"Please."

"I don't know, Sam, okay? You're my brother. That's all the reason there's ever needed to be." He curled his fingers into his palms, fingers biting into his flesh. "But sometimes I wish to God I didn't care."

Sam's body went slack, his face showing absolutely nothing. He seemed to draw back into himself. "Me too… Sometimes I wish you didn't." The words sounded broken, as if wrenched forcefully out of his body.

"But Sam?" Dean made sure Sam looked at him, or at least near him, before going on. "I do care. Always have." Still Dean couldn't say those words.

_I love you, Sammy. God, I love you._

Sam finally broke his gaze away from Dean's. He twisted the end of his plaid shirt around his finger, winding it tight as he shifted in Dean's unrelenting grip. "It scares me, you know."

"It should." Dean's tone was cold.

Head bent so his eyes were hidden, Sam said, "I don't know how to stop."

"We'll figure it out. There's got to be—"

"No. Not the blood. I don't know how to stop being…like this."

Dean swallowed hard. "Like what?"

"A failure. A freak."

"Sam…"

"I'll find a way, Dean. I swear." Or else die trying.

"_We'll_ find a way."

Sam turned on him eyes that held long unused, tarnished faith. "Okay."

Relaxing his grip enough to pull Sam closer, Dean nodded his head. "Okay."

x.x.x.x.x

_Eight Days Later…_

They had another hunt. As Dean was wont to call it, an intermission from hunting down Meg; he had flatly refused to entertain Sam's suggestion.

"We aren't just 'waiting for her to come to us.' We're coming for her, ready or not," he had said, adamant.

Their "intermission" consisted of a local hunt that sounded like nothing more than a few rogue flashing lights that led hikers off sharp embankments. Two fatalities so far: a middle-aged man and a woman in her early twenties. No connection obvious connections other than the area in which they hiked, so the victims were most likely sharing only geography. And that had led Sam to the nature of the creature. Minus the part where he and Dean nailed the glowing suckers, the hunt was over.

Sam rubbed dry hands over his even drier eyes, feeling the rough skin of his palms scrape against his eyelids. He hadn't been sleeping much, not with the dreams he was having. If they were dreams; he wasn't so sure anymore. Things had changed, and he didn't know what it all meant.

A soft knock at the open door of Bobby's library had Sam's head snapping up fast enough to pop a joint. He winced and waved Dean in.

Dean strolled through the door and dropped down in a chair next to Sam's. He frowned as he looked his brother over. "You look like crap, man."

Too tired to glare, Sam simply muttered about the things Dean could do with himself if he didn't like how Sam looked. When he was finished, he sighed and asked, "You need something?"

Still watching Sam closely, Dean nodded. "Yeah, Cas got in touch with me earlier."

"Through a dream?" Sam couldn't hide his curiosity about the way the angel communicated with his brother.

"Yeah. I think whatever he's looking for, he's getting closer." Dean leaned back in his chair, the front legs coming off the ground as he rocked it. "In the meantime, he thinks he picked up a lead on Meg."

"What about this case?" Sam waved a hand at the research he had in front of him.

Dean gave it a glance and shrugged. "Haven't you figured it out?"

His brother knew him, damn it. "Yeah, it's done. We can finish it anytime before next weekend. They won't act until then." Sam shoved his books closed and leaned back in his chair, exhaling slowly. When he glanced at Dean, his brother was still watching him. "What?"

"Dude, you may as well give up now. Spill."

"Back off, man," Sam mumbled, turning his head away, "I'm just tired."

Dean reached out and put a hand on the back of his neck, letting it rest comfortably. "What's going on?" When Sam said nothing, he frowned, annoyed. "I'll figure it out eventually; I'm Big Brother, like from that book. I know when you're sleeping and I know when you're awake."

Sam's tired eyes focused on him, a slight grin tugging at his features. He rolled his eyes and replied, "That's Santa Claus, you jerk."

Dean shrugged. "Well, whatever." Then, serious, "Gotta tell me these things, Sam."

He thought about brushing it off, thought about saying nothing. He changed his mind. "My dreams are changing."

"Changing, like…?"

"Getting stronger, I think. And just, I dunno, different."

"Specifics, Sam."

Sam thought fast, trying to phrase it in a way that wouldn't worsen the worry in his brother's voice. He failed. "They're showing me stuff; weird stuff. I don't understand it all, yet." He looked away. "The stuff I do understand…it's not good."

The grip on his shoulder shifted, tightened. "We'll deal with it."

"Yeah." Sam nodded, pushing himself to his feet, quickly followed by Dean. "You hungry?"

Dean grinned. "Starved. What're you thinking?"

"Falafel and pita."

"Sounds disgusting."

"Burgers?"

"And pie."

"That diner place down the street has good stuff." Sam bent and grabbed his jacket from where he had tossed it on the floor. "You ready?" He strode to the door.

Dean watched him walk out, slowly strolling after him. "Yeah, I'm coming." He took a moment, glancing back at where Sam had been working. "I'm right behind you."

THE END

_"He is my most beloved friend and my bitterest rival, my confidant and my betrayer, my sustainer and my dependent, and scariest of all, my equal."  
- Gregg Levoy_


End file.
